


Shades of Grey

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Claiming, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:33:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a side to themselves that they keep hidden from the world, but for Richard, it goes beyond that. He believes his secret is so awful that he's spent many years locking it away and risking his life to keep it hidden. Though he's always shunned friendships, believing himself to be too monstrous, working on the set of Supernatural changes things and gives Richard the chance to form relationships he's always been too afraid to allow himself before.</p><p>When Misha finally does discover Richard's secret, he takes on the task of showing Richard that things are not always so black and white, and that Richard's secret is not the terrible thing he's always seen it as.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shades of Grey

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://rpf_big_bang.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://rpf_big_bang.livejournal.com/)**rpf_big_bang** 2011 challenge.

  


  
**  
Part One   
**   


Richard doesn't get sick. He hasn't gotten sick since he was a kid, too young to even remember it, somewhere upwards of thirty-five years ago (not that he's counting). So when the flight attendant tells him he seems flushed, he ignores it, chalks it up to an LA tan. The same way he ignores the dizziness he's been feeling for a few days now, and the way his mouth is bone-dry, and the way his hands shake when he holds them out. The same way he ignores how the skin of his neck is chafed and painful and hot to the touch.

He's not sick, because he can't be sick. He tells himself that very firmly, several times, and when he gets off the plane in Vancouver, he almost believes it.

~

There isn't much better than working on the set of _Supernatural_. Richard would be lying if he said it wasn't his favorite job. Jensen and Jared are more down to earth and _real_ than any of television series stars he's ever met. And Misha…. Misha Collins is in a class of his own. The few times he's gotten to work with this cast, he's gone home feeling relaxed – carefree and happy in a way he almost never is otherwise.

When he's here, he can almost forget the things in his life that keep him awake nights, that hide in the shadows and wait until he's back is turned so they can attack.

He can almost forget that he _is_ one of those things.

He'd been sure he would never get to come back here after the last time, but when the fans say there's no such thing as 'really dead' in this show, they're not kidding. Somehow, the writers worked Gabriel back into the script, and when the call came, Richard had practically lunged at the chance. It's a double-hour season opener they're going to be filming, which means he'll be here for two weeks minimum.

It's exactly what he needs right now.

Richard sinks to the bed in the hotel room, toeing off his sneakers as he lies down and stares at the paint-flecked ceiling. He fingers the ball-chain necklace at his throat absently and ignores the burn of it scraping across his raw skin. Contemplates if it's too early to be calling Jared and seeing if his friend would be up for grabbing dinner together now that he's in town. Tries to will away the tightening in his chest at the idea of socializing, of spending time Out There with Real People for _fun_. It's a more daunting task than it should be, but he's gotten better at dealing with that. Sort of.

He's never really gotten used to the idea of friends, but the people here are as close as he's ever come. He's wanted to be normal his entire life, but if there's anyone he's actually willing to struggle for, it's for them. It's never quite enough, but he never stops trying.

~

Misha's been keeping a close eye on Richard for the past few days, ever since he came back to the set looking only a couple grades higher than death warmed over, so maybe that's why he notices it first. Richard's been pale all day, a complete – and frankly worrying – turnaround from how feverish he'd looked beneath the makeup earlier in the week. His eyes, usually almost inhumanly bright, have gone dull and lifeless. He honestly looks like lifting his arm would take all of the strength he currently possesses, and Misha's first thought as they face off in front of the cameras as Castiel and Gabriel is that the poor guy looks like he's going to collapse any second.

When Richard does just that, at first Misha can only stand and watch it like it's happening in slow motion. Richard's knees buckle, he sways to the side and then topples like a beat-up rag doll. He lands hard on his arm – his right arm, Misha notes absently – which thankfully isn't followed by the expected crunch of bone.

And then he's moving, Castiel's trench coat swishing out behind him as he kneels swiftly on the ground and turns Richard over onto his back. He hears an almost indistinct moan and watches as Richard's eyes flutter open, warm amber glinting up at him in the sunlight, and finally, Misha remembers to breathe. "Damn it, are you okay?" he asks, and that's not his usual voice, that's his Castiel voice, but for some reason he can't seem to make it come out any differently right now.

"What –?" is all Richard manages to get out before there's what feels like a goddamn swarm of people all around, poking and prodding and asking questions, and one of them taps Misha's shoulder, probably to get him out of the way, but like _hell_ is Misha going anywhere.

When the medic comes running only a moment later, Richard's eyes go bright and panicked, flicking around at the people crowded around him until they land on Misha and relax just the tiniest bit. Misha reaches down without thinking, clasps his hand around Richard's and squeezes.

"We need to get you to the hospital," the medic says. "Do you think you can stand for me?"

"No hospitals," Richard grits out, not taking his eyes from Misha. " _Please_."

"I'm really going to have to insist," the medic – Misha thinks her name is Lisa – says tightly, at the same time as Phil is in the background making noises about insurance and all kinds of things Misha refuses to hear.

" _No,_ " Richard says, desperate now, and Misha's not going to be able to ignore that voice or that look.

He swallows hard, says, "If he's okay, it may be better if he just goes someplace quiet."

"Look, Mr. Collins…."

He puts on his best smile, feels it like glue and paper-mache. "Give him a second, it's probably just a bit of dehydration." He doesn't know what the fuck he's even talking about, but it sounds good, anyway, and although her mouth thins disapprovingly, Lisa – or whoever she is – doesn't say another word while he gets Richard sitting up.

"Can't…just need to…" Richard tries, but can't seem to speak around the dryness of his throat.

"C'mon, you with me?" Misha asks. He snaps his fingers, something he doesn't think he's ever done, _ever_ , and a PA is miraculously there with a bottle of water. He uncaps it, holds it up and lets Richard sip. Breathes some more when Richard gets a little down without coughing.

"No hospitals," Richard repeats, more firmly this time, and with his too-bright gaze directed at the right person this time. "I'm…" The 'fine' gets lost when he sways a bit, and he's not even standing yet. "I've been getting over…pneumonia. Just need some rest. Sorry guys, I shouldn't have pushed it, I know this is gonna screw you up."

The director waves it off, looking worried, leaving Misha wondering if he was the only one to catch Richard's hesitation over the word _pneumonia_. "We can call in Jared and Jensen, get some of their scenes done instead. Take today and tomorrow and get better, yeah? Sure you don't want a hospital?"

Richard's glare speaks for him, and Misha's mind is made up. He hauls Richard up, gets an arm around him to hold him steady. "We're going back to my place," he says in a tone that refuses to cater to a single argument. "Get you back on your feet before you give me another heart attack, sound good?"

"'Kay," Richard murmurs.

Misha tries to believe this is an intelligent thing he's doing. Richard's head falls to his shoulder as they make their way to his car, and any reservations he has go out the proverbial window.

~

Richard mumbles, only once, when they pass the exit for his hotel and continue on toward the one for Misha's apartment, that he needs to go _home_. But his eyes are already slipping closed again, and as protests go, it's not one that Misha is inclined to pay any attention to.

He shoots another quick, concerned glance at his friend, and resolutely keeps driving.

~

Misha feels like he's on autopilot as he gets Richard settled on the couch with a pillow, a blanket, and a glass of water on the table beside him. The smaller man is down for the count, curling up and closing a fist around the blanket as he settles into the cushions. Like this, he looks all of five years old, and Misha feels something lodge itself in his throat at the sight.

He goes into the kitchen, gets a pot out and sets about throwing together the fixings for the soup his mom always used to make him when he was sick. Some of the anxious worry he can feel clawing at him dissipates with the soothing routine of _chop, slice, mix, stir_. He leaves it simmering on the stove when it's done, goes to check on Richard for what's probably the twentieth time.

Richard is a scary sort of pale, still. Misha can almost make out individual veins, blue lines tracing delicately around Richard's scalp, vivid in the harsh light of the apartment. He swallows and goes back into the kitchen.

Anyone else, and he would be dragging them straight to the hospital if they showed up looking like that. But he can't get the fear in Richard's eyes out of his head, and he's not willing to be the one to put that expression back on his friend's face. If Richard gets any worse, he knows he'll have to, but for now…

He spoons up a generous helping of the homemade soup and brings the bowl back into the living room. It takes a lot of effort, but he manages to get Richard awake and sitting just long enough to eat all of it before his friend slides right back down to the pillow and into whatever dreams are keeping him tethered in sleep.

Misha doesn't move for a long time, his eyes repeatedly mapping out every curve of Richard's face, memorizing every detail he can see as he sits and wishes there was more he could do to help.

~

Two days later, Richard hasn't really gotten any better, but he hasn't gotten worse, either, thank God. Misha should have hauled him back to the car and driven him straight to the hospital yesterday and he damn well knows it, but the one time he tried to bring it up to a half-conscious Richard, the pathetic little whimper had stopped him cold in his tracks, and he'd reluctantly let it go.

Misha may need to work on his willpower, a little.

He's dodged a couple (dozen) calls from the set already, and there's going to be hell to pay when he finally goes back. It's too late to do a re-write for the episode, though. A few extra days of filming will cost them a lot less than a whole new script. Misha will find a way to cover for Richard, and for himself, just as soon as he can leave the guy's side for more than an hour or two at a time.

When Richard chooses that moment to blink open half-lidded eyes and use his virtually nonexistent voice to call for Misha, Misha admits that it may still be a little while before he's willing to try.

~

Richard isn't sure how much time has passed. He just knows that the poison – and it can only be poison; he may not know _everything_ about what he is, but he knows enough – hit hard and fast, and between the moment he went down on set and now, all he really has are fragments of memory to let him know he hasn't been completely unconscious this whole time. Most of those fragments involve Misha, so he figures it's only natural that he calls for the man to figure out what's going on.

When Misha comes in, though, wearing sweatpants and a loose shirt, deep half-circles under his eyes and a thick layer of stubble over his face, guilt hits low in Richard's gut. _Shit_.

"Hey, s'good to see you awake," Misha says. Richard thinks his smile may actually be genuine. He can't understand why Misha wouldn't resent the hell out of him right now. "How're you feeling?"

"Uh." No good way to answer that. Richard feels like he's been run over by a truck. He's heard the stories, about what happens to those of his kind unlucky enough to get the poison in their bloodstream. He's pretty sure he can feel it, every horrible burn of it tracking its way through his body. But he's awake now. Theoretically, that means he can recover. He's only a half-blood, so maybe it won't be so bad. He can be more careful now, make sure it doesn't hap –

It's at about that second that he reaches up, fingers itching to wrap around the comforting, confining silver he always keeps at his neck, only to find that it's not there. His heart pounds, adrenaline coursing through a body too weak to handle it. _Oh God_. "Where is it?" he demands, his eyes flying back to Misha.

Misha, who has frozen by the doorway, looking perplexed with his eyebrow raised and his mouth half-open on a question of some kind. "It? " he asks, pointedly.

"My necklace. " Richard's voice is a growl, and it takes a lot of effort to force himself calm, rational. "I took it off for filming, I didn't… It's in my trailer, I _have to have it_. I –" He cuts himself off, his eyes widening. "What day is it?" A whisper now.

Misha takes a few steps forward, hovering uncertainly. "It's Tuesday, Rich. You've been pretty out of it for the last couple days."

Nausea sweeps over him, his vision darkening at the edges. He thinks he might hurl, chokes it back desperately because there's no _time_. "I need to…" He struggles out of the blanket, tries to stand, cries out when he knees buckle.

"Hey, whoa!" Misha says, and he's suddenly right there, hefting Richard back onto the couch and pressing a hand on his shoulder as though to keep him there. "The hell do you think you're doing?"

"Need to get it, I _need_ it, Misha it's the full moon!" It takes a long second for his fever-addled brain to realize that won't mean a damn thing to Misha, but it doesn't matter. He grips the man's arm, begs. " _Please_ , I can't be without it, it's been too long already. Misha, please, you have to help me, I can't…"

Whatever Misha sees in his eyes, however desperate Richard must seem in this moment (and he doesn't think he's ever been more desperate in his life), must be enough because he nods slowly, pulls away carefully from Richard's bruising grip. "Okay. Okay, I'll make a run over to the set and grab it. Your trailer, right?"

"Yes. Yes, God, please hurry." Richard closes his eyes, sinks back down to lay his head against the couch's armrest, suddenly exhausted in ways he didn't know it was possible to be. The seconds ticking away in his brain, the light coming in from the windows deepening as the sun inches it's way toward the horizon, and Misha's not moving fast enough, he's not…

…he's not…

A heavy sleep claims him, and Richard never hears Misha slip out the door as fever overtakes him again.

~

"You owe me, like, forever," Jared says, sliding the chain across the Formica tabletop and trying not to sound as worried as he feels. The diner is all but empty around them, that strange period of time between lunch and dinner, and Misha looks like this is the first time he's been able to breathe properly in days.

"I really do," Misha agrees, folding his fingers around the cold metal. He holds onto it for a long time, rubbing his thumb repeatedly over the metal connector before finally shoving the necklace into his pocket. "Thanks, Jay."

Jared watches him for several long seconds, torn between being concerned and just being confused. "Hey, no big," he eventually tells Misha, when the silence has already gone on for too long and the other man is beginning to look uncertain. "Just take care of yourself, okay? And Richard. When he's up to it, tell the bastard to give one of us a call." Because damn it, Jared's been worried. And what worries Jared inevitably worries Jensen, so basically, all either of them has been doing is stressing out for two days now.

"Will do," Misha promises. "I should probably get back and get this to him. He seemed to feel it was important." Misha's hand moves to his arm, and Jared raises an eyebrow at the bruise there. No way could Richard have done that, but…

He swallows, nods, and claps Misha on the shoulder as they stand. "Take care," he demands, one last time, hoping maybe the repetition will make it a reality.

They part ways with Jared's assurances that he'll do what he can to calm the studio down (which should be a fun undertaking), and Misha's guarantee to be back on set one way or another within the next few days. He looks like he's praying it's a promise he can keep.

Jared doesn't actually get into his own car until Misha's has long since passed out of sight.

~

Richard jolts awake at the sound of the door opening, and then he's immediately wracked with shudders, his body and his subconscious mind both trying to force back a change they don't have the power to stop on their own. The sun really is going down now, he can feel it. He has a couple hours, three at the most, before the moon is up.

 _God, please,_ he begs, but if God is out there, Richard's pretty sure He stopped caring about him a long time ago.

He buries his face in the pillow, huddles under the blanket as though it will be enough to fight off the bone-deep chill the fever's left him with, and continues to pray. That's how Misha finds him only a few minutes later.

"Richard?"

Richard looks up blearily, sees his salvation dangling loosely around Misha's fingers. He tries to reach for it, but can't make his arm move properly, and Misha must realize it because he comes closer and holds the necklace out. Richard's hand closes over it.

It's like fire and ice suddenly battling over every nerve in his hand.

He yanks back with a hiss of pain, slamming his eyes shut as though that will somehow fix him. _Too long, too long, too long…_ his mind chants, but he already knows, doesn't need the reminder.

Two full days is longer than he's gone without wearing the thing in over a decade. Of course his skin is going to rebel against the touch of it now.

Doesn't matter. It's the only way. He opens his eyes, meaning to snatch it and close it around his neck before the pain can stop him, but Misha's already pulling it away, his blue eyes wide as he stares at the unforgiving silver. Richard makes some kind of whining sound in his throat he swears he'll never admit to later, tries and fails to reach for it. He's never felt this weak before. "Misha…." he pleads.

"What the hell is this?" Misha asks. It's the uncharacteristic cursing that has Richard closing his eyes again, because it means that whatever Misha's mindset is right now, he's definitely surprised and probably angry.

He has every right to be, but Richard doesn't have time to argue about it.

"Give me the necklace," he says, trying to sound firm. It's the worst thing he could do, because Misha doesn't deal well with people ordering him around, and Richard knows this, but damn it, his brain doesn't want to work properly, it's not his _fault_.

Sure enough, those blue eyes fill with challenge, and Misha backs another step away, holding the necklace in his fist, still staring at it like it's going to jump out and bite him. "Why did the chain hurt you?" Misha's voice is low. Deceptively calm.

Richard's eyes close. "Please, just give it to me," he begs again. "It doesn't matter, I just need it. _Now_."

"No."

Richard blinks once, then twice. Stares uncomprehendingly at Misha. "What?" he whispers.

Misha turns, walks away, and vanishes behind the closed door of his bedroom. When he comes back, Richard already knows the necklace is gone. Hidden God only knows where, because Misha Collins is nothing if not a creative sonuvabitch when he wants to be.

 _No_.

 _Oh, God, no_.

Twilight's taken over the sky outside, and it won't be that long now. God, what does Misha think he's doing?

Richard tries, he really tries, but he only manages to lever himself a couple inches off the couch, and Misha's hand clamps down before he can make it any further. Not that he could. Not that he'd even know where to start looking _if_ he could.

_No, no, no, no, no…_

"How about you stay right there and we talk." Misha settles down carefully on the other side of the couch, and something inside Richard begins to scream, in frustration or terror or both.

~

Misha blinks at Richard a few times. "You're _what?_ " he asks.

Richard has shoved himself into the corner of the couch, trying to take up the smallest amount of space possible, his hands clenched and his eyes on the ground. He's too damn pale, and his forehead is dotted with sweat. Misha's disbelief at the thing Richard just told him doesn't make him worry any less at how sick his friend looks.

"You're gonna make me say it again?" Richard mutters. "You heard. Just because you don't believe it doesn't change the words."

"Say it again anyway." Misha's eyes narrow as Richard's eyes squeeze shut and his voice goes whisper-quiet.

"I was born with lycanthropy. I'm a werewolf."

A werewolf.

Misha wants to laugh. He wants to slap his friend on the back and say, _Nice one, Rich, really had me going there_. Play it off like the joke it so obviously should be.

Except.

Except Richard is white with fear, jaw clenched and lips pressed so tightly together that Misha thinks he's liable to hurt himself. His hands are fisted in his lap, and there's a fine tremor running up and down his arms. There's no doubt in Misha's mind that his palms will be sporting small crescent-shaped cuts where his fingernails are digging too deep.

Now matter how much Misha wants to shove it aside like a bad joke, Richard clearly believes exactly what he's saying.

And, well, there's the silver. How could the necklace Misha had been holding since he took it from Jared have burned Richard the way it did? Even now, there's a red mark where his fingers grazed it. That's more than imagination. That's something solid, something _real_. And Richard is so sick, which he claims is silver poisoning from wearing the necklace for so long.

But.

A _werewolf?_

Far more likely, it's something like an allergy to the metal that Richard's had since he was a kid, but that an overactive imagination ran away with and turned into something fantastical. Like mythological beasts by moonlight.

"Please, Mish. Please just give me the necklace." Richard sounds bone-weary, to the point that it almost physically hurts Misha to shake his head.

"No. We'll figure this out, but no. Not that way."

Richard's eyes find his. Misha is taken aback by the amber glow of them from the way the dying sunlight is slanting in through the window, so much so that he almost misses his friend's next words. "You don't believe me anyway. What difference does it make?"

"You believe it," Misha says simply. "And I refuse to support you hurting yourself on purpose. So, no." He pauses, and then carefully adds, "Besides, I don't _not_ believe." Because, hell, what does he know? There's a lot of scary shit in this world. Maybe not Winchester levels of scary, but scary nonetheless, and until he has proof one way or another, he won't say anything is absolutely set-in-stone positive.

Even werewolves.

"Damn it, Misha." Defeated, now, and Misha hates hearing that in Richard's voice, but it won't make him change his mind.

"Is it dangerous?"

Richard instantly goes wire-taut. A breath trembles its way out of him, and his eyes widen. Clearly, the thought hadn't occurred to him before, but it is now. "I…." He swallows, his eyes darting everywhere except to Misha. "Christ, I don't know. It's been so long, I don't –" His hand moves again to his throat, clenches into a fist at the reminder that the necklace still isn't there. His eyes lock once again with Misha's. "You need to lock me up."

Misha starts. "Excuse me?"

"Now!" Richard shouts, startling Misha at the sudden change in tone. There's fear in Richard's eyes again, deeper than before, and he's suddenly frantic with it, turning to stare out the window even as he's scrabbling at the edge of the couch and trying to lever himself up. "A closet, the bathroom, whatever. Just somewhere I can't get to you."

"Rich. Calm down." Misha stands and goes around to the other side of the couch, laying a hand on Richard's shoulder and forcing the man to look up at him. " _Calm down_."

Richard shakes his head, his breathing erratic. "No, you don't get it. Sixteen years, Misha. It's been _sixteen years_ , I don't know how I'll react when I'm changed anymore, and with the silver poisoning, I might…the pain could make me angry, angry enough to hurt you. Misha, I _can't_ …."

"You won't," Misha says, going for soothing and missing it by a wide margin, judging by Richard's glare.

"You don't know –"

"You never hurt anyone before, right?" Misha raises an eyebrow. The glare doesn't change, but he chooses to take that as confirmation. "Then there's nothing to indicate you will now."

God, he's having a discussion about the behavior of werewolves. What is his life?

"I can't take the chance." Richard pushes Misha's hand away and forces himself up. What he plans to do, Misha isn't sure, but it's a non-issue because he only makes it two shaky steps before his knees buckle.

Because Misha's not an idiot and knew what was going to happen the second Richard moved, he's there to catch him and drag him right back to the couch. Richard struggles, but it's about as effective as a fruit fly trying to take on a mountain lion. By the time Misha is pushing him back down, Richard is already going limp again with exhaustion and fever, a pitiful moan clawing out of his throat before his eyes slide closed and he surrenders to sleep.

After that, it's both easier and infinitely more difficult. Richard is back to being in and out of consciousness, too-bright eyes fluttering open every now and again over the course of the next two hours. Misha's pretty sure that during these moments, Richard doesn't actually see or recognize a thing.

Misha stays by his side, perched on the arm of the couch as he cards his fingers through his friend's sweat-slick hair and talks to him even though Richard probably can't hear any of it. Offering him everything from words of comfort to bad jokes, anecdotes to childhood stories.

The sun is long gone, the moon just beginning to appear over the horizon, the next time Richard speaks with any coherency. "Should go," he whispers. His voice is sandpaper-rough, almost like the way it sounds when he's trying to make fun of Misha's Castiel voice. Only worse. A lot worse, because this isn't just playful mockery. "Time…morning…"

He slips away again before he can finish his thought, but Misha can guess at what he was trying to say. Like he's going anywhere. Like he'd go even if Richard _could_ hurt him in the state he's in, if –

Misha cuts himself off mid-thought and stares out the window at the moon, newly risen and shimmering with pearlescent, otherworldly beauty.

He scoffs at himself for waxing poetic, even in the privacy of his own head. But he can't help the fact that if nothing else, the strangeness of the evening has given him cause to pay more attention, and what he's seeing _is_ beautiful. And frightening.

He doesn't know what the hell to believe, but he knows that he's scared for Richard.

For. Not _of_.

He doesn't know how long he's been staring, but at least several minutes must have passed while he wasn't paying attention. He's brought back to himself by a gentle press against his leg, indicating that Richard must be awake again, the fever sapping his strength but not letting him get any real rest.

Misha turns, opens his mouth to try to shove it through Richard's thick skull that he's _not leaving, thank you very much_ , and finds the words sticking painfully in his throat when he encounters the golden eyes of the wolf.

~

It's the smells that wake him. He's tired, so tired, and still so desperately weak, but the smells are overpowering, rousing his mind from the dredges of the poison and filling him with energy he doesn't really have.

He'd forgotten.

He'd forgotten what it's like, what it can be like. He'd forgotten that this was always something he unwillingly loved, the way every scent told a story, a kaleidoscope of fragmented wonders. He'd forgotten the way his eyesight sharpened, how he could read the words off the pages of a newspaper from twenty feet away. How power thrummed just beneath the surface of his skin, each movement rippling through with strength and grace.

He'd forgotten that, when he _was_ the wolf, he didn't always remember to hate it the way he knew he should.

Still, even as a wolf, it's impossible to block the fear he feels when he smells _Misha_ , spearmint gum and sandalwood soap and the cigarettes he pretends he doesn't smoke. Misha, who never should have been dragged into this because Misha is good and wonderful and probably the best damn friend he's ever had before.

Misha's going to run screaming into the night, and it's a good thing, he tells himself. It's what Misha _should_ do.

If only Misha didn't also smell so much like peace. And gentleness. And _home_.

He touches his nose to Misha's leg, inhales the scent of denim and detergent, and has to fight not to press closer. He's shaking all over when Misha turns, and it's not because of the silver running rampant through his veins or because of the fever burning him up inside. It's because he's afraid. He's afraid of the way vivid blue eyes widen and startled breath catches and muscles lock up tight.

He's afraid that Misha's going to run.

In fact, he's expecting it. Expecting it with such certainty that when it doesn't happen – when instead, Misha's head tilts for a moment before he lets himself fall from the arm of the couch onto the actual cushions – there's no stopping the confused whine from escaping his throat.

And when Misha's hand tentatively catches in his fur and drags through it, causing the most blissful sensations to tremble through him, there's no stopping the way his head falls to Misha's lap, the way he gets as close as he can to the comfort being offered.

He falls back to sleep just like that, reveling in the feeling of someone who, for the first time ever in his whole life, is not afraid of him.

Misha's scent and touch both permeate his dreams, and against all odds, he sleeps peacefully.

~

Misha doesn't sleep. He doubts he could even if he was so inclined. He's kind of got a lot on his mind.

Like werewolves. More specifically, that they are, in fact, real.

And that Richard is, in fact, one of them.

He can deal with that, though. Going with the flow comes pretty easily to him, and _Jesus_ , the guy has enough to deal with without Misha freaking out all over him. He's not even a horror-story monster werewolf, he's just….

He's a _wolf_ , plain and simple. God, if Misha hadn't been right here, if he didn't know any better, he'd swear it was just a regular everyday wolf laying here on his couch. Sandy-colored fur and amber-golden eyes and not any bigger or smaller than you'd expect a wolf to be. Not that Misha has a whole lot of experience with wolves, because why would he? But he's seen them, in zoos and on TV, even once from a distance on a wilderness hike. He knows enough to know what a normal wolf looks like, and he knows enough to know what a werewolf is supposed to look like, and he knows that they are worlds apart.

Except that apparently, they aren't.

But still. That, he can handle. He thinks he's doing a pretty okay job so far, anyway.

What he can't handle is that on top of the werewolf thing, Richard is sick. Really sick. _Poisoned_ sick. And Misha doesn't know how to help him, _if_ he can help him. How does one go about curing silver poisoning, anyway? Is it chemical, or something else? If there are actual bits of silver wreaking havoc inside Richard's body, that's a big problem. If it's just the essence of the metal, like a bad allergic reaction from being around it for too long, it's still a problem, but maybe not an unmanageable one.

But the fact is, he just doesn't know, and he doesn't even know where to start looking to try and get a handle on it.

And Richard is fast asleep on his lap, whimpering a little whenever Misha's hand stops stroking through the surprisingly soft fur on his neck, and there's not a chance of Misha leaving this spot until his friend is either awake or human again.

That's just all there is to it.

~

Changing is never exactly painful, but it's still not something Richard has ever slept through. Until now, anyway, because when he opens his eyes – squinting because the light is too bright and his head is aching something fierce – he's curled up on the couch, completely human, naked beneath the blanket Misha must have pulled up around him. Shivering because he's _so damn cold_ , sweating in spite of that feeling, and feeling even colder because of it.

He'd have thought that the fever would take the edge off the intense hunger that always follows a change – and God, he hasn't missed that feeling of an empty pit in his stomach – but apparently not, because he thinks if he doesn't get something to eat soon, he might actually die, if the silver doesn't finish him off first.

No sooner has he had the thought than Misha comes in from the kitchen holding a plate of steaming eggs and toast and a glass of orange juice, and if Richard didn't feel so horrendous, he'd probably be in danger of kissing the man stupid.

Which is something he shouldn't think about, no matter how muddled his brain is.

He tries to sit up and finds that his arms are too jelly-like to support him. Misha places the food on the coffee table, steps around the pile of rumpled clothes on the floor, and sits beside Richard, helping him sit up slowly. His joints ache, and his head throbs, but he tries to smile his thanks at Misha. Probably doesn't succeed, but Misha smiles back anyway.

Richard is starting to wonder if Misha's even human, with how well he's taking all of this insanity.

"C'mon, lean against me," Misha says, proving Richard's point exactly as he places one arm around him and uses the other to grab the food. Richard wants to shy away, because he remembers suddenly that Misha knows what he is, and God, how can he even stand to touch Richard now?

But the fact is, it's a good thing Misha's there and seems to know that Richard has absolutely no strength of his own, because even the act of chewing drains him completely. Any other time, he'd throw a fit at the idea of being fed like a toddler, but his thoughts are getting too fuzzy to really care all that much, and all he wants to do is sleep. Maybe if he sleeps, he won't feel so cold.

He devours all of the eggs and toast with Misha's help, gulps down half the glass of juice, and then he just can't keep his eyes open anymore. He slumps further into Misha's hold, thinks he makes a sound that could possibly be embarrassing if he remembers it later – something between a sob and a whimper – and has just enough presence of mind to feel Misha's arm tighten around him for a brief moment before he's slipping away into unconsciousness again.

~

Misha needs help.

It takes him a good long time, sitting and staring at the slumbering man on his couch, before he can admit it. But Richard is sick, and Misha needs him to be better, and that means he definitely needs help, because he's just not good enough to handle this on his own.

There aren't many people he'd feel okay about calling for something like this. Werewolves aside, there aren't many people he'd trust to know what they're doing any more than he does. Which is to say, not at all.

But he does have a couple people he's learned he can trust with just about anything, no matter how outrageous, bizarre, or just plain ridiculous. And one of them is secretly a research guru to boot.

Misha picks up his phone and calls Jensen.

~

Jensen isn't sure what he expects, walking into Misha's apartment that afternoon, the door unlocked but no one answering his knocks. He knows what Jared told him about the favor Misha had asked him for, and how strange it had seemed to Jared. And he knows that Richard's been here since he collapsed on set, supposedly recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia. And he knows that Misha's been ignoring the calls from the producers and directors alike, refusing to go back in to work until Richard's back on his feet.

He's not sure what it all adds up to, but he's pretty sure he didn't expect to find Richard unconscious on the couch, shivering under a wool blanket (in the middle of the summer, good lord) with Misha sitting by his side stroking a hand up and down his arm.

He _definitely_ didn't expect to see that look in Misha's eyes, the one that's half-scared, half-hopeless, and half-something-he-obviously-hasn't-put-a-name-to-yet (but which Jensen recognizes from intimate personal experience). Which is a lot of halves, but whatever.

Huh.

He clears his throat, and Misha blinks up at him. Jensen doesn't remember the last time he was able to startle Misha, and he doesn't take any pleasure in it now. "What's up?" he asks, then points his gaze at Richard. "And before you answer that, why isn't he in the hospital?"

"No hospitals," Misha says, sounding downright ragged. Like his voice has been put through a meat-grinder, but instead of the gravel-rough tones he uses to play his character on television, it comes out instead sounding too high pitched and too strung out. Jensen wonders if he's slept at all in the last three days, would bet his life that the answer is no.

"Unless you have a hell of a good reason –"

"I do." Misha cuts in smoothly, but keeps his voice quiet, like he's unwilling to disturb the man curled in close against him. "But you're not going to like it. Or believe it."

Oh, this should be good.

Jensen wonders just what the hell he's gotten himself into this time.

~

Whether it's the sheer desperation in his tone or the way he'd simply overridden every single contrary statement Jensen made, it hadn't actually taken Jensen very long to at least understand how very serious Misha was.

He's skeptical – and really, that's probably being generous – but he's no longer questioning. He's already sitting at the kitchen table with Misha's laptop open in front of him, typing away while his eyes skim over articles Misha couldn't make heads or tails of. Misha, meanwhile, has set about throwing more soup together to force down Richard's throat. Mostly because otherwise, he'll just feel useless.

Richard's fever has gone down, but still not broken. Misha isn't sure whether to take it as a good sign or not, but he's feeling hopeful. The shivering has eased off a bit as well, but the man still can't stay conscious for more than a few minutes at a time, and the one time he's woken with Jensen here, his eyes slid right past without a flicker of recognition. Which isn't quite as promising a sign.

It's a couple hours later when Jensen finally leans back, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, eyes squeezed shut like he has a headache. Silently, Misha goes for the bottle of Tylenol in the cabinet, hands two to Jensen along with a glass of water, and feels a tiny tremor of guilt when Jensen swallows them both together.

"So?" Misha asks when he can't take it anymore.

Jensen squints up at him, wearing a petulant little glare that Misha doesn't read into too seriously, and then sighs. "Well, after trying to sort through the bullshit, and the fantasy, and the chemistry, and everything in between…" The glare intensifies a fraction, like it's Misha's fault he's been plunged into the rabbit hole.

Misha's conveniently forgetting the fact that it is. "Mhmm?" he prods.

"Fact is, Mish, I think you're doing everything you can. If he's not dead yet – hey, don't look at me that way, _you’re_ the one who wants me to believe he's a _werewolf_ – then he just needs time to work the silver out of his system." He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck the way he does sometimes when he's feeling self-conscious. "There are a couple accounts – really old accounts that had to be partially translated from Latin, which is not my forte, for the record – that seem to indicate that the…the change itself will help."

Misha's gaze darts over to Richard, the way it's already done a thousand times today. Richard's color _does_ look better, and his breathing is a little easier, Misha thinks, but… "Nothing is ever that easy."

Jensen shrugs. "Look, I don't know what to tell you. This is what I found. If you don't want to chance it, there's still the hospital –"

Misha's look stops that quickly enough, but then he sighs, drops down to the chair opposite Jensen, elbows on the table and head in his hands. "What'm I doing, Jen?" he mumbles. "Feel like I've lost my goddamn mind."

Okay, possibly the werewolf thing has been weighing on his mind more than he's been willing to admit, even to himself. He knows what he saw, but…

"Nah, we'd know if that happened," Jensen says, a hint of amusement threaded into his tone. Misha peeks up at him, sees the gentle understanding in his eyes, and wants to hide all over again. Jensen grins a little. "I mean, just imagine the plans for world domination that would start cropping up. We'd all be in serious trouble."

"Cute," Misha says dryly.

"Misha." Jensen sighs, reaching across the table to clap a hand on Misha's arm. His eyes catch and hold Misha's, his expression perfectly serious as he continues. "Take care of your friend. You've been doing a hell of a job so far. He's lucky to have you lookin' out for him."

"But I –"

"You're a lot of things, Misha. Crazy isn't one of them." Jensen pauses, ducking his head as his grin widens. "Well, mostly, anyway. When it comes to the important things." He stands up, stretching a little even as he continues to watch Misha. "You gonna be all right?"

"Yeah." He's pretty sure, anyway. Jensen's faith is actually going a long way to helping with that. "I'll keep you posted. Keep Jared out of trouble till we get back."

"That's asking a lot, but I'll do my best," Jensen replies with a small laugh. He turns again, but Misha stops him before he can actually reach the door.

"Jensen." He quirks a small smile up at the younger man when Jensen turns. "Just, thanks. For everything."

"Course, man." Jensen tips an imaginary hat, smiles with something that looks like encouragement, and then he's gone.

In the silence afterwards, with nothing else to occupy his attention, Misha goes back to Richard.

And waits for moonrise.

~

He wakes disoriented in a darkened room, too warm and feeling a tiny bit crushed and surrounded by the smell of _Misha_.

The smell alerts him that he slept through another change, and the warmth tells him that Misha still has not left his side.

Sure enough, he lifts his head, finds the man curled around him on the too-small couch, half hanging off of it while the other half is draped over him, arm tight around him, hand tangled in his fur.

It feels too good to question, so he doesn't.

He senses the approaching sunrise, and he waits for it. He is awake and alert for the first time in what feels like a very long time, and he chooses to exploit that by watching Misha for as long as he can get away with it.

He nuzzles in close, snuffling against Misha's neck. This peace won't last; instinctively, he knows that. But it's hard to remember all the reasons why it shouldn't when he's like this.

As a wolf, he can almost forget what it is to be afraid.

By the time the sun begins to overtake the moon, both their breaths and their heartbeats have matched rhythms.

He chooses not to notice.

~

Misha's not usually a heavy sleeper, which is why he's a little surprised to note that it's already mid-morning when he blinks awake, judging by the way the sun is slanting into the room, and that he's curled around a decidedly human Richard.

A decidedly human, decidedly _naked_ Richard.

Who is, decidedly, also awake.

"Morning," Richard says, raising an eyebrow and quirking a tiny grin down at Misha, whose head is resting on his chest.

Misha clears his throat. "Morning," he replies. He pauses, the silence tense and heavy between them for a long second, and then adds, "So glad to see that this isn't going to be one of those awkward moments."

Richard laughs – actually _laughs_ , for the first time in days – hoarsely, and smacks Misha with the back of his hand. "Move. You've been crushing me all night, and I'd like to be able to breathe, thanks."

Relieved to have the excuse, Misha shoves himself away and plops down cross-legged on the floor instead, wiping sleep from his eyes like that'll hide the flush he can feel creeping into his face. "How long've you been awake?"

"Little before dawn," Richard says with a small shrug. He pulls the blanket up and wraps it around himself, shivering a little. Still feverish then, even if it's not as bad. At least he's awake. Coherent. _Alive_.

"You had me worried, Rich." Misha doesn't take his eyes from Richard's, and he sees the way the other man's eyes widen and his face flushes guiltily.

"I'm not…that's never happened before, I didn't think –"

"You didn't think that wearing something poisonous to what you are was a _bad idea?_ " Misha scowls hard at him. "I know you're smarter than that."

Richard swallows. "I just didn't want to change anymore," he admits quietly. "And the silver stopped it from happening. I thought maybe it would be okay; I'm only half…half-werewolf, I guess I hoped maybe I was immune."

"Yeah, well, you're not." Misha fights back a shudder at just how very _not_ immune he's seen Richard the past week. Tries not to wonder what might have happened if Richard had kept wearing the necklace, hadn't told Misha the truth. "And maybe it took a lot longer than it would have for a…full-blooded werewolf, or whatever, but you still should have known better around the time your skin started chafing and the fever hit. You were being an idiot, and you were being one deliberately. For the record, I don't approve."

"Yeah," Richard says. "I know. I'm sorry I had you worried."

Misha waits for the words, _It won't happen again, Mish, I promise_ , but of course they don't come. He sighs and stands to go make them some breakfast.

~

Richard still feels kitten-weak when he tries to do anything other than lie on the couch and watch TV – even holding a book for any length of time seems to be beyond him right now – but otherwise, at least he can definitely say he's feeling better.

For one thing, aside from a small nap in the early afternoon, he's stayed awake and lucid all day. Misha is in and out of Richard's general vicinity, tidying up the apartment and getting some work done for his charity, and whenever he's nearby, he chatters at Richard like the past few days never even happened. Richard is content to stay curled up in the blanket – getting dressed just doesn't seem worth it when he can barely move and will be changing again with the moonrise anyway – and let Misha's voice wash over him.

Until he's not anymore.

It's mid-afternoon when the first feelings of panic hit. He's awake, and his thoughts are unclouded. All at once, it really hits him that Misha has seen him change.

Misha has _seen_ him as the wolf.

In Richard's mind, there's no greater shame, and it's going to happen again. If he doesn’t get out and back to his own apartment, Misha will see it again.

Suddenly, moving becomes imperative. He throws the blanket off, fights a wave of dizziness as he reaches down to grab his rumpled clothes from the floor. His legs wobble as he stands and slips on his boxers, give out entirely when he tries to do the same with his jeans. His knee hits the coffee table painfully as he goes down, and he's forced to grit his teeth against the sharp wave of pain. He's not as young as he used to be, and that's going to smart later.

Unfortunately, biting his tongue doesn't stop Misha from rushing to see what caused the banging sound, and he blinks wide blue eyes as he takes in the scene.

Then his expression goes carefully blank.

"You going somewhere?" he asks, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. Richard hates him for how well he can pull off that unimpressed expression.

"Home," he forces himself to respond. "Been here too long already, it's about time I got back on my own two feet." So saying, he grabs for the arm of the couch and forces himself back to his feet, where he sways unsteadily.

Misha snorts. "How's that working out for you?"

Richard's glare is probably significantly less effective than he wants to think it is, judging by the amusement dancing at the corners of Misha's mouth. He'd really like to get his shirt on – he thinks it would help, and also possibly make the cold more bearable – but the idea of trying to lift his arms is daunting.

"Sit down before you fall down," Misha advises. "Like I'm really going to let you go anywhere anyway."

"Damn it, Misha."

"If Jared's puppy-dog eyes don't work on me, you can bet _yours_ won't do any good." Misha steps into Richard's space, puts a hand on his shoulder, and shoves gently.

Richard hits the couch, and doesn't even have the energy to be angry about it. All he wants to do is curl back up and take another nap. "I hate you," he says anyway, because Misha shouldn't be allowed to believe he can get away with things like this.

"You don't," Misha says airily, too damn sure of himself.

"I shouldn't be here, I'm not dying, and you shouldn't have to see it." Richard clamps his jaw shut, but it's not soon enough. Misha's eyes go steel-bright.

"See what?" he asks, even though of course he must already know.

"Look," Richard backtracks, tries again. "It's fine, okay? I won't…I won't go anywhere. But you should at least give me back…" He trails off, realizing too late that this is only going to make things worse.

And, indeed, Misha looks ready to shoot laser-beams from his eyes at this point. "Get up," he says, and then grabs Richard's arm without even waiting to see if he'll follow the order first. He pulls him up, supporting more of Richard's weight than Richard wants to admit, and half-helps, half-drags him to the bedroom on the other side of the apartment.

"What –"

"Shut up." Misha ruthlessly cuts him off, his voice harsher than Richard's probably ever heard it. "On the bed." He doesn't even bother pointing, just drags Richard two feet further across the room and drops him onto the abhorrently comfortable mattress.

"Misha –" he starts, and then is interrupted by Misha reaching down and dragging off Richard's jeans and boxer shorts and tossing them across the room. " _Hey!_ "

"Stop pretending you have modesty," Misha mutters, seemingly to himself. He steps back, points imperiously. "Under the covers."

"What in God's name are you doing?" Richard asks. He's disgusted to realize he's already folding himself underneath the big quilt.

"We're calling this a self-harm intervention," Misha tells him, "wherein I am the long-suffering sponsor, and you are the crazy addict. It's like role-play, only not. " His glare has, impossibly, intensified, but Richard loses track of it as he watches Misha shuck off his own shirt and lie down on the bed beside him. He doesn't bother with the covers, just throws an arm over the blankets covering Richard's chest, presses too damn close, and closes his eyes. For all intents and purposes, he looks like he's already asleep.

"Uh. Misha?"

"Deal with it," Misha mumbles into Richard's shoulder. "If this is how I keep you from doing something stupid, then you better believe I'm going to do it. Now go to sleep."

Sleep is the very last thing on Richard's mind.

Somehow, he follows the order anyway.

~

The room is dark with the lights off, heavy curtains doing their part to block out the sun because, on those few precious mornings Misha is allowed to sleep in, he likes to take advantage of it. Normally, he'd never be able to tell the time of day from this room unless he either looked at the clock or drew the curtains back. But despite the fact that he's done neither since Richard's breathing evened out with sleep, he knows, somehow, exactly how close the moon is to rising.

When Richard tenses beside him, he's not surprised by it. He's a little surprised that the man doesn't wake with the change, given how alert he'd been throughout most of the day, and especially given that his fever finally died out at least an hour ago. But the change itself, Misha's been waiting for. He loosens his hold and fixes his eyes on his friend, taking in the way Richard's muscles go taut and something seems to _ripple_ over his skin.

A blink, the mattress moves, and he's already missed it. The moment between human and wolf, come and gone like a lightning strike. For a moment, Misha's sad that did get to see. To understand just that little bit more.

And then he sighs, shifts the quilt away, and puts his arm back around his friend.

Richard snuffles a little and presses his cold nose into Misha's neck. Clearly aware he's doing it, because when Misha looks down at him, he's met with a sharp amber-golden gaze that seems to read him on levels he's never admitted to having.

Misha quirks a smile, strokes a hand through soft fur, and watches Richard's eyes drift shut again as he nuzzles at Misha's jaw.

Misha's heart thumps hard against his ribs. His throat is too dry to swallow. And he's more content in this little safe haven than he's been anywhere else in a very long time.

Misha thinks he might be in serious trouble.

~

Richard slips out of bed the following morning before Misha wakes. He grabs his jeans and boxers and pads into the living room to get dressed somewhere he won't wake Misha. He shivers when his hand brushes the collar of his shirt and he's again forced to remember that there's a lack of cool, familiar metal against his skin.

Not something to think about now, he tells himself firmly, and instead focuses on how good it feels to be standing under his own power, walking without feeling like his legs are made out of rubber.

He calls the set while he's in the kitchen gathering ingredients, spends a good chunk of time begging forgiveness and promising a hundred and twenty percent for the rest of his time filming. He checks and double checks that Misha won't be held accountable, makes sure that the blame is placed firmly where it belongs on himself.

By the time he's finally allowed to hang up, the pancakes he's been steadily mixing, pouring, and flipping are just about ready. He plates them, pours two glasses of orange juice, grabs the maple syrup from the fridge, and tosses everything onto a big tray he locates in the cabinet.

When he finally brings everything back into the bedroom, Misha is just sitting up and blinking himself awake. If he's surprised to see Richard up and about, he doesn't say so, only raises that goddamn eyebrow and grins that goddamn smirk and says, "Look at you, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Feeling better, are we?"

" _We_ are feeling perfectly fine, thanks," Richard grumps, settling the breakfast tray down next to Misha.

"Aww, sweetie, you shouldn't have," Misha simpers.

Richard smacks him soundly upside the head. "Eat your damn breakfast."

He can do this. He can pretend everything is normal. The poison is gone as far as he can tell, he feels perfectly fine again, and life can continue on as usual. Chances are, they'll probably never speak of any of this again, and that's awesome. That's perfect.

Richard's deluding himself and he knows it, but he's okay with pretending for a little while.

He has to be.

~

It's a good day on set, against all odds. Misha keeps a steady eye on Richard, to the point where he fumbles even more lines than usual, but Jensen and Jared are somehow so adept at covering for him that the director never really notices a difference. And Richard himself seems to be doing fine: His color is better than it's been since he arrived in Canada, and even if he does look tired, it's still an incredible improvement over what Misha's gotten used to. With every hour that passes without some kind of disaster occurring, Misha feels a new wave of relief crash over him.

By the time lunch rolls around, he feels secure enough to leave Richard with Jared so they can finish off a scene, and he and Jensen grab food from Craft Services together. Misha submits to Jensen's subtle questioning, and assures him that he was right and that Richard is obviously on the mend.

By the end of the day, all four of them are in good spirits, and it's not until everyone is packing up to leave that Misha even notices how anxious he's feeling. It's not a feeling he has a whole lot of experience with, the last few days notwithstanding.

And even when he finally knows it for what it is, it's not until he sees Richard grabbing his own keys that he realizes _why_ he's feeling that way.

He waves Jensen and Jared on ahead and sidles up to Richard with a casual, cocky grin. "So, I hear there's a monster movie marathon tonight. What do you say, you, me, the couch, and a big bowl of popcorn? Twenty bucks says they're showing _An American Werewolf in London_."

Richard quirks an eyebrow, and it's almost masterful, the way he hides the flinch. If Misha were paying less attention, he'd never have caught it. "Sounds like the fixings for a hot date," Richard says, "but sadly, I'll have to pass. I never thought I'd miss the inside of my own hotel room, but gosh golly, it is calling my name."

Misha frowns. "Look, Rich –"

"I get it," Richard cuts in, sighing and running a hand distractedly through his hair. "You don't trust me. With the silver, and the –" He stops, glancing around even though almost everyone else took off as fast as they could ages ago. "Anyway, I get it. But come on, I gotta get back to my own life sometime."

Misha reaches out and snatches Richard's keys faster than the other man can blink, pockets them as his friend's jaw falls open in shock. "Yeah, well, doesn't mean it has to be today," he says, then turns and strolls off toward his car, keeping his steps slow and even until he's absolutely positive Richard is following him.

If his insides tremble a little with relief, well…no one has to know but him.

~

The further it gets from the moon, the worse Richard feels. Not physically; physically, he's feeling better than he has in months, and yeah, it makes him feel like an idiot for ignoring the signs for so long, but at least the poison is gone now.

Mentally, he's a mess.

No matter how unreasonable or asinine or masochistic he knows it is logically, he feels like he's dying inside without the shield he's always kept around his neck. The one defense he has against the monster he knows he is. Without it, he's powerless and exposed, and it feels like just about the worst thing he's ever experienced.

Misha's content to act like nothing has changed, aside from a few tasteless jokes that aren't really all that unexpected, but Richard can't look at him, knowing that Misha knows. Worse than that, that he's _seen_.

Misha's seen the thing that hides beneath his skin, and how is Richard supposed to believe they can just move past that?

But Misha takes him back to his apartment that day, and the next, and the next, and somehow…

It's okay.

There's something changing inside Richard, and it scares the ever-loving hell out of him. The only thing that soothes it is being near Misha, and of course Misha is the one person he keeps expecting to lose faster than a finger-snap. Which is the exact reason he never gets close to people, why he stays on the sidelines and never lets anyone too far in. He forgot that rule, with Misha and even with Jared and Jensen. He forgot, and he knows it's going to bite him in the ass.

Except that doesn't seem to be happening yet.

And Richard is getting tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

~

Filming on the episode wraps a week and a half after he and Richard return to the set. It's a hell of an episode, and Misha knows all of them put some of their best work into it. He'd maybe be feeling pretty damn proud of himself, except…

Except, it means Richard is leaving. In fact, he's got a flight out of Vancouver that very night, because apparently he has an audition waiting for him tomorrow in LA. And Misha gets it, he knows how the business works. It doesn't wait for anybody, and Richard's not high enough on the food chain that he can turn down a good opportunity.

That doesn't change the fact that Misha kind of wants to slash his tires, cancel his flight, and drag the man back to his apartment until he agrees to stay another day, another week, hell, another year if that's what it takes.

It's not that he doesn't trust Richard. It's just that Misha's seen the look that comes into his eyes sometimes, and the way his fingers drift idly to his neck like they're searching for something.

Simple fact is, Misha's gotten used to watching over Richard the past couple weeks, and he doesn't want to give that up, doesn't care how irrational it makes him. That, and the necklace in his pocket, wrapped in five layers of fabric, feels like the heaviest weight in the world right now, as they stand by their cars drinking a last beer together.

"So," Richard says, taking a final swig. "This is it, huh?"

It makes Misha feel a little better to hear that same heaviness in Richard's voice that he knows has been in his own all day. "Yeah, guess so," he replies. "You planning on hitting any of the cons this year?"

Richard flushes, looking away. "I had a couple marked down, but…maybe not. I just. I need to get shit in my head together. Hard to do that surrounded by a couple hundred happy fans."

Misha snorts. "That's one word for them." He releases a slow breath and pulls the thing from his pocket. "Guess I should give this back now, then." He doesn't want to hand it over, dear God, he just wants to burn the thing and forget it ever existed.

Except, well, then he'd have to forget about everything he's recently learned about Richard, too, and that's not something he's willing to give up.

He presses the necklace in its little makeshift pouches into Richard's hand, but doesn't let go, even when Richard's wide eyes find his. "I trust you," he says. "Don't let me down, Rich."

"I won't."

It feels like a promise.

Misha doesn't give Richard time to thank him. He doesn't leave room for awkward goodbyes or meaningless vows to keep in touch or any of the usual bullshit. He drags Richard into a hard hug and tries not to feel the way Richard's hand fists in the back of his shirt. When he pulls away, Misha makes sure to keep his grin composed as he tosses a wink at Richard and tells him to take care of himself.

And then he's getting into his car, watching Richard get into his own and start it and pull out of the lot with one last wave that Misha doesn't – can't – return. He takes a breath instead and drives in the opposite direction, back to his too big, too quiet apartment.

All the while, wishing he knew why he suddenly felt so damn empty.

 

  
**  
Part Two   
**   


Richard discovered what he was when he was five years old. That was also when he discovered that his father wasn't actually his father, and that fear was a far more powerful emotion than love, even with family.

Thirty-six years later, the knowledge hasn't gotten any easier to abide, and the hits just keep on coming.

It was bad enough, knowing that he was a monster and that he was pretty much doomed to be alone. Friendships are one thing, and he's always thought even those were a bad idea. But the thought of being _with_ somebody, in spite of what he is? It's just too much to bear. He doesn't have it in him to take the kind of pain the inevitable rejection would bring, no matter how much he'd deserve it.

But it seems that the wolf inside him doesn't hold with this kind of thinking, because the six months since he left Vancouver have been a slow, enduring kind of torture. The kind where he wakes up panting and drenched in sweat, aching for a touch he knows he can't have. The kind where he's forced to spend the moons in the woods, as far from civilization as he can get so that no one hears the howls he can't hold back.

Everything inside him is _longing_ , and he may not know everything about what he is – he's spent a hell of a long time avoiding that exact kind of knowledge – but he knows enough. The part of him he tried so hard to keep hidden under lock and chain was allowed to get free, and in the time it was free, it found something it had been searching for for a long time.

It found its mate.

 _Richard_ found _Misha_.

And hell, he should've known it was coming, but he's kept the wolf part of himself smothered for so long that he'd forgotten what the call of it could be like. He'd started wearing the silver _because_ of it, because sixteen years ago, his body had started yearning for something he couldn't understand and didn’t want to.

Of course it was going to catch up to him now. And of _course_ it was going to be Misha. How could it not be?

Richard's been in love with the guy practically since the day he met him.

The best thing to do would be to unpack the necklace from where it's buried, put it on, and shove the wolf so deep it can never rear its ugly head again, even if it kills him. That's what he should do, and if he still had any of the common sense God gave him, it's exactly what he _would_ do. Misha doesn't belong to him, and Richard can't allow the wolf the thing it desires most, which means he needs to get a handle on it before it can get any ideas.

But goddamn it, he made a promise. More than that, he made a promise to _Misha_. And in both his mind and the wolf's, that's a powerful fucking thing.

So the necklace stays buried, the wolf stays free, and Richard stays trapped somewhere in between the two parts of himself, unable and unwilling to embrace either.

By the time the call from the producers comes in, he feels like he's suffering the worst kind of withdrawal. There's no way he can handle taking up the Gabriel mantle right now, not when it means being confronted with Misha Collins and everything the man represents to Richard. There's no way, it's the stupidest thing Richard could possibly do, and worse than that, it's playing with fire. It's plunking a bottle of wine in front of an alcoholic with a big sign that says 'FREE. DRINK ME.' Richard's not that brainless, never has been. There's common sense and there's _common sense_ , damn it. Of course he's not going to do it.

Of course not.

He tightens his hold on the phone so hard it's in danger of cracking and tells them he'll be there first thing Monday.

~

Chances are, doing this was an extremely bad idea, but no one's ever accused Misha of always doing the smart thing. In fact, he takes a certain amount of pride in telling people to shove their sense of rationality up the ass on a regular basis.

So him being here? Probably not so surprising, bad idea or not.

The baggage claim area isn't very crowded this early on a Monday morning. Why Richard always goes for these unreasonably early flights is beyond Misha, but he's actually appreciative of it right now. He doesn't feel like dealing with crowds, and once Richard sees him, he doubts the other man will be in the mood for handling them either. Misha isn't sure what to expect, but he's prepared for just about anything.

The digital sign over Belt 4 lights up, incoming from LAX, and moments later it begins to move. A small number of bags trickle out, only to be claimed by sleepy-looking passengers rushing from the terminals to grab them.

He sees Richard's two scuffed-up bags come through, but there's still no Richard in sight, so he grabs them and heads over to the uncomfortable pseudo-leather chairs to wait. He's just about to sit down when something – some sense he has no understanding of – makes him stop and look up.

Richard is standing ten feet away, frozen in shock, looking like the single most beautiful fucking thing Misha has ever seen. Misha lets his lips twitch up in a sheepish half-smile and takes a couple steps forward.

He barely even sees Richard move, but all at once, he's slammed into by almost a hundred and seventy pounds of werewolf, Richard clinging to him like he's a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific.

Like he's going to disappear if Richard lets go for even a second.

His arms come up automatically to hold on, and he takes a few deep breaths, inhaling the scent of Richard's cologne and feeling himself really relaxing for the first time in six months. Richard's face is buried in his neck, and Misha can feel him trembling just the tiniest amount, making something inside him go warm and protective.

The elder wolf hadn't told Misha it would be like this.

It's not surprising when the man in his arms suddenly goes wire-taut and frantically tries to push himself away, but Misha's been waiting for it. He doesn't want to let go anyway, so holding on, wrapping his arms just a little tighter, just enough to make a point, isn't any kind of hardship.

He wants to tell Richard he understands. Wants to tell him about the dreams, and the research, and the wolf Jared and Jensen helped him track down. He wants to tell Richard just how much he can rely on his friends, because he doubts Richard has any idea. More than anything, he wants to tell Richard to fucking _claim_ him already, damn it, because Misha wants that. Hell, Misha's probably always wanted that, from way before he knew what Richard was.

He wants to tell Richard all of that and a thousand other things, but he won't. Richard isn't ready to hear any of it. God only knows how long it'll be before he is, but Misha knows better than to push some things.

Before they can talk about _them_ , he needs to get Richard to accept _himself_.

Well, Misha's always liked his mission impossibles.

~

Richard stays silent, feeling about sixty different kinds of awkward as Misha leads him out into the weak winter sunlight, chattering about work and the guys and God only knows what else. His mind is going a thousand miles a minute, which is about as fast as Misha's mouth is running, but it feels frozen in its tracks at the same time. There's just a constant loop of all things _Misha_.

He'd expected to have time to acclimate himself. Get used to being back in BC, maybe have drinks with Jared or Jensen before working his way up to…well, this.

Not on the table, apparently. Maybe he shouldn't be surprised that Misha was waiting to ambush him. They've barely spoken since Richard left, and that's only if you count a few impersonal e-mails and forced text messages as real communication. Misha was pretty obviously concerned when they parted ways; it stands to reason he'd want to check on Richard now he has the chance.

Only, now Richard feels like he's crawling out of his skin, because Misha is so close, and being close to him feels so right, and the wolf inside of him is so happy, and it's _wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong_ –

He realizes he needs to stop thinking about it so hard as he forces himself to get into the passenger side of Misha's car, because otherwise, he's going to start beating his head against the dashboard any second now. And really, there's no reason to get blood all over the interior of the car just because Richard can't handle anything about his own life these days.

He continues to stay mostly silent as they drive. Occasionally, he tosses in a quiet "yeah" or a subdued "mhmm" to prove that he's listening, but mostly, he's not. He lets Misha's voice wash over and settle him, calming his frantic pulse and his scattered thoughts and his overwrought nerves, but he has no idea what Misha is actually saying.

Which might be why he's a little confused when they eventually turn into a sleepy-looking neighborhood – somewhere away from the hustle and bustle of the city – and stop in front of a tiny butter yellow house with white trim.

"Um." Well, he's already been so articulate this morning, why mess with a good thing?

"Surprise!" Misha beams at him.

"Um," Richard says again, and then mentally kicks himself hard enough that he can get out the question, "Where are we?"

Misha's practically bouncing as he unbuckles his seatbelt and waves a hand toward the house. "We're home!"

Richard stares at him blankly.

Misha rolls his eyes, still grinning like a madman. "I didn't want to say anything to ruin the surprise, but I bought the place a couple months ago." His eyes are sparkling happily, and Richard can almost see the little cartoon hearts dancing in them as Misha pauses to look back toward the house. "I'm in Vancouver all the time anyway, and honestly, I'm thinking pretty seriously about staying even after _Supernatural_ ends. I like the area. And it's starting to feel like home, you know?"

Richard doesn't know, not really. He hasn't had a place that felt like home since he left Nashville, and even Nashville had only ever had its moments. The apartment he keeps now in LA tries to feel like some kind of home, but it never really succeeds. He thinks it might be because he doesn't know what home is supposed to feel like anymore.

Still, he's not entirely surprised by Misha's newest bout of insanity. Misha rarely acts like the settling type, but Richard's always seen that side of him that longs for some kind of stability. One small thing to keep him grounded when every other aspect of his life is centered on change and adventure.

"What about acting?" Richard asks after a long moment of staring at the cheerful little abode.

"Oh, well, I can still take jobs here and there, why not?" Misha shrugs. "Besides, it's fun, but maybe not something I want to do for the rest of my life. Who knows?"

And that, that sounds more like the Misha most people would expect. It's almost refreshing to hear it.

Richard clears his throat a little awkwardly. "So. Why are we here? I mean, of course I want to see it, man, but I should probably drop my stuff at the hotel at least, maybe take a shower and –"

"I didn't mention?" Misha butts in, far too casually to be trusted. He's inspecting his nails as he continues, "There's plenty of room. I figured you could just as easily stay here."

The bottom drops out of Richard's stomach.

~

Misha's watching Richard just closely enough that he sees the terror come into his eyes, sees the refusal well before Richard begins to voice it. Since he's already decided he's not going to take 'no' for an answer, it isn't all that important, but he figures it's better to cut it off at the pass anyway.

Misha gets out of the car and pops the trunk, dragging Richard's luggage out before the other man has even scrambled to find the handle to his own door. He whistles cheerfully as he makes his way (a little awkwardly, he can admit, wondering if Richard packed bricks for God's sake) up the stone walkway to the front door and unlocking it just as the car door is slamming shut and Richard is calling his name with a part-angry, part-desperate tone to his voice.

"Hurry up, slowpoke!" he calls back, tossing a grin over his shoulder and pushing inside with the two heavy bags.

Misha is nothing if not determined.

He drops the bags to the floor in the living room with a loud thump, shaking his hands out to try to get feeling back into them.

"Misha," Richard starts the second he gets into the house, frown fixed firmly over his face, amber eyes tinged with too much worry and sadness. "Come on, you know I can't –"

"The full moon is in a few days," Misha says, quietly. The words silence Richard way too effectively. "I know it's not exactly the easiest thing for you, but dammit Rich, I've been worried. I'd just feel better if you were here, okay?"

He can see Richard wavering, but the guy doesn't go down easy. "No, look, it's not really okay," he says, crossing his arms over his chest like that's going to shield him from Misha's determined face. He looks down at the floor, probably trying to fine one single argument that Misha won't be able to out-logic in seconds.

Misha decides not to give him the chance. "Richard," he says, playing dirty and stepping closer, forcing Richard to meet his eyes. "Please."

Richard folds like a house of cards, just like Misha knew he would, and Misha starts breathing just a tiny bit easier. He thinks he should probably feel guilty.

Maybe later.

~

Jared sighs and steps into his house the day after Richard's return to Canada. He's feeling significantly more depressed then he'd been when leaving that morning, and all he wants right now is a few blessed hours of peace before he has to go stand in front of a zillion cameras and work his ass off in the freezing Vancouver weather. He shucks his coat in the hallways, trudges into the den and kicks off his shoes, then crawls onto the futon and curls against Jensen's side before the other man has even woken from the light doze he's been indulging in.

"Hey there," Jensen mumbles as he stirs awake, pushing a hand through Jared's hair probably more on instinct than anything else. "What's wrong, Jay?"

Jared sighs heavily against Jensen's shoulder. "He's so _miserable_ ," he says. "He's practically a walking billboard for the suicide hotline." Richard had walked into the diner for brunch looking more ghost-like than some of the ghosts on the show have been. Pale and withdrawn, moody and temperamental, and it's not like Jared could really do anything, not without saying something Richard wouldn't want to hear right now. "He barely said two words to me, and the two words he did say were lashing out at Misha. Not that he would tell me why he was mad at him." The fact that Jared and Jensen both know perfectly well why is hardly the point.

This sucks.

"Misha's gonna get him better," Jensen says, his voice sure as he nuzzles at Jared's head in a lame attempt at comfort. That it actually helps is totally irrelevant. "You know if anyone can…"

"I know." Jared sighs again. "Just don't want to wait on something that could take _forever_ , knowing Rich's stubborn streak. And meanwhile, the guy looks like death."

Jensen shudders against him. "You didn't see him with the silver in his system, Jay. Trust me. _That_ was like death. This is just unhappy and – let's face it – kind of pathetic. He'll get over it. Eventually."

"And until then, we just watch him suffer?" Jared isn't really down with that, not when they're talking about someone he considers a good friend.

"Until then, we make sure we're there for him when he needs it, and we let Misha do what Misha's good at." Jensen looks down at him with a tiny grin that goes a long way toward making Jared feel better. If Jensen thinks things will work out okay, then maybe they really will.

"Yeah," he snorts quietly, shifting down onto the futon so he can use Jensen's lap as a pillow while he naps. "Whatever that is."

Above him, Jensen makes a soft noise of reassurance and continues running his hand lazily through Jared's hair until Jared finally falls into a worried, restless sleep.

~

Richard spends the next few days all but confined in the guest room of Misha's cheerful little house. Oh, he leaves with Misha to go to work. Does his job and gets the scenes done the best he can manage. He goes out with some of the guys for drinks when he's asked. Even manages a brunch with Jared the first full day he's in Vancouver, although that's pretty much a disaster, he realizes later.

But whenever he can, he's holed up in the room Misha told him to use as his own while he's trapped here.

He tries not to be bitter at his friend, knows Misha's only trying to look out for him, but Richard's a grown man and doesn't need looking after, thank you very much. He's itching to escape, to throw himself into a deep dark pit and ride out the upcoming change in mournful solitude. That's what he knows best, and however horrible it is, it's a thousand times better than being _here_.

Here, in this room, with its mint walls and ivory windowpanes, its too-soft bedspread and plush carpets spread over rich hardwood floors. Here, in this room that he wants to love, but which feels far too much like a prison to ever be comfortable.

It's not Misha's fault, not really. Aside from playing dirty to keep Richard here despite Richard's best intentions, he's been pretty damn accommodating. It's not like Richard's blind to the way Misha's eyes tighten every time he walks away from him to slip into his room and lock the door behind him. Nor can he miss the sadness that lurks in those same eyes when Richard gets lost in his own head and starts becoming silent and sullen. But Misha never says a word about it, only forces a grin and claps Richard on the shoulder and tells him to let him know if he wants to bond over beers later.

But, hell, every time Richard gets within ten feet of Misha – which is already way too often – all he can think about is how much he never wants to leave that small circle of space again. And he can't deal with that. Definitely not with the moon so close. He's going to have enough trouble dealing with it once he's a wolf. Proximity now is only going to make it that much harder.

It's been a while since he craved the familiar weight of the silver ball-chain – hidden away in the depths of his bag, still wrapped in Misha's fancy little pouches – quite this much.

He tries his damndest not to think about it.

~

Misha's favorite place in his new house is the fireplace. It wasn't something he'd expected to see, the first time he visited with the realtor. But the beautiful stone masonry in the living room, obviously well cared for by whoever owned the house previously, was what kept him coming back three times before he finally gave in and put down an offer.

Most nights, especially now that it's getting so cold outside, he plops himself down in his big cozy recliner with a book or his laptop and a warm cheerful fire in the grate, and relaxes. He still does this now that Richard is staying in the house, but now he spends most of the time he's 'relaxing' wishing that the other man would join him out here.

Richard never does.

Misha holds himself back from pushing the issue all the way up until the first night of the full moon.

They get out of work late that afternoon, and he watches as Richard withdraws more and more into himself. He's fidgety the entire way home, and when they get to the house, he goes straight to his room and closes the door with more force than Misha thinks is really necessary. The pop of the lock being engaged makes Misha shake his head, but it's not like it'll present any sort of actual deterrent.

He gets the fire going to ward off the chill in the house, and then looks out the big picture windows, watching the sky and waiting for the moon.

An hour later, it's time.

The thing about the locks on the bedroom doors is that they're ridiculously easy to pick. A straightened wire hanger popped into the tiny hole on the outside of the doorknob, and the lock on the other side pops right back open. He'd given them a lot of side-eyed glances when he first moved in, but now he's glad he never got around to changing them.

When the door to Richard's room swings open on slightly creaky hinges, Misha's heart breaks a little at the sight that greets him. The wolf – his friend, his _mate_ – is curled up into the smallest ball of fur he can manage, in the shadowy corner on the far side of the room. Away from the softness of the bed or the warmth of the heating vents, like he doesn't deserve even an ounce of comfort right now.

 _Damn it, Rich_ , Misha thinks but can't say. Instead, he clears his throat pointedly, meeting wary amber eyes when Richard's ears prick and his head lifts. When he sees Misha standing in the doorway, he whimpers and buries his head in his front paws.

Misha rolls his eyes. "C'mon, Rich. You know I'm not going to let you do this to yourself. Get out here." He nods for the wolf to follow him, and slowly, hesitantly, Richard does. His head is hung low and he whines with every few steps, but he does follow.

It takes a little effort, but he manages to convince Richard to curl up on the big plush rug in front of the fireplace (an indulgence Misha doesn't regret in the least). He seats himself comfortably next to him, leaning back on his hands as he watches the flames.

Richard doesn't relax, exactly, but eventually he stops looking like he's going to bolt any second, and that's when Misha begins to talk.

He doesn't talk about anything important; instead, he tells stories. Fairytales, mostly, about princesses who fall in love with misfits, outcasts who save the world, outsiders who find a place to belong. Part of Richard must see right through him, know exactly what he's up to, but he never makes a move to stop Misha's storytelling. Just gazes at him with those golden eyes until Misha's grown hoarse and the sky outside is beginning to turn dusky blue with the imminent dawn.

Misha falls asleep there, with his head pillowed in soft fur and his arm curled protectively around the wolf.

Of course they don't talk about it the next day. Richard scrambles up the second he realizes Misha is awake and closes himself in his room so he can get ready for work. That day passes much the same as the previous one, and that night, Misha again breaks into the room, beckons Richard out, and spends the evening with him in his wolf form.

This time, he bakes. Dancing around the kitchen while playing music on the record player (which is so old it's practically archaic, but he loves the damn thing), mixing batter and eating as many chocolate chips as he uses. Richard silent but watching with something that can only be amusement, snatching sugary snacks off the counter whenever he thinks he can get away with it. Not noticing the way Misha's eyes brighten and the smile that takes over his face every time.

The night after that, they curl up on the couch together and watch bad movies for as long as they can stand before neither can keep their eyes open any longer.

And just like that, the moon is past with neither the worse for wear.

Misha counts it as a success, even if Richard still spends most of the next day hiding from him.

~

Three days after the change, which Richard is very doggedly trying not to think about, the producers call him into a meeting and ask if he'd be interested in being a recurring guest star for the rest of the current season and into the next, assuming the show gets picked up again.

It's a hell of an offer, and it must be exactly the opening Misha's been looking for, because the second Richard mentions it, he casually mentions that he was hoping Richard would think about continuing to use Misha's guest room as his own.

Christ, and what's Richard supposed to say? Every instinct is telling him to stay, all logic is telling him to leave, and he's caught firmly between the two. He loves this little house with all the eccentricities about it that remind him of its new owner. It's a thousand times better than the forgettable hotels he's used to staying in, better even than a nondescript apartment where he could have his own space.

And, of course, it has _Misha_ , which is as much of a blessing as it is a curse.

But what can he say?

"I'll stay," he finally tells Misha a week later. He doesn't meet Misha's eyes as he says it, but even then, it's impossible to miss the way the man lights up, or the warmth of the impromptu hug he grabs Richard in.

 _This is going to bite me right in the ass_ , he thinks from the haven of Misha's arms, trying not to cling as tightly as he really wants to.

The thought doesn't feel like the terrible thing it should be.

~

Misha's schedule picks up pretty soon after that, Castiel's arc in the season becoming far more prominent than it's ever been before, but even with as busy as he suddenly is, he's very aware of the way Richard slowly begins to settle. The lines of stress on his friend's face beginning to fade, his smile flickering out more readily, his eyes getting noticeably brighter with every day that passes.

There's a tense couple days where Richard leaves for LA and Misha all but convinces himself that he won't come back. But Richard does what he needs to, arranging to rent out his apartment, shipping the few belongings he has to Vancouver, and then he does come back, his eyes whiskey-bright and his half-smile uncertain but there.

Misha tries to play it off like he never had any doubt, doesn't think he succeeds when Richard nudges his shoulder and rolls his eyes with that small grin still playing about his face.

That's not to say everything becomes suddenly perfect. For every day that Richard looks more comfortable and more at ease in his own skin, there's another where he's surly and snapping, where he trembles every time Misha comes too close and locks himself away in his room when it all becomes too much.

The full moons, of course, bring a stress all their own, but Misha never lets Richard hide during those times, and even if the man is skittish and withdrawn during the day, the wolf becomes less and less hesitant whenever Misha unlocks the door and gestures for him join him.

Misha didn't expect miracles, and overall, he's just happy that Richard is still here. The rest can only come with time, and time is something he can afford to give.

~

Jensen doesn't really spend a lot of time with Richard where it's just the two of them. He likes the guy well enough, but when it comes down to it, outside of the Jared-n-Jensen show and whatever Misha and Richard have together, Jensen's always been closer with Misha, and Jared and Richard have their own wacky friendship, and everyone's pretty cool with that arrangement.

But a couple weeks into March, Jensen finds himself on set with the crew and Richard and that's it. Jared and Misha both have a couple days off while Jensen and Richard film a few demanding, intense scenes between Dean and the smarmy archangel. Jensen's trying hard not to begrudge Misha or Jay, because both have been working their asses off lately, but it's hard when there's a freezing cold drizzle coming down and his breath is misting in front of him and all he wants to do is curl up in bed at home.

Richard doesn't look much better than Jensen feels, but that's not what makes him go over and clap a hand on the other man's shoulder, giving a tired smile when Richard jumps and shoots him a startled glance.

"Hey man, you okay?" Jensen asks.

"Cold," Richard responds grumpily, but then he looks down, and Jensen knows that's not all there is to the look on his face.

He nods toward the trailers. "C'mon, we got a half hour break and Jared dropped off hot chocolate mixers a little while ago."

Richard's eyes go a little glazed as he nods gratefully and follows Jensen toward his trailer. "Have I mentioned how much I adore that kid?"

Jensen laughs. "Don't tell him that, it'll go straight to his head."

He sets about mixing hot cocoa the way Jared showed him – which _he_ learned from his momma in Texas, and that woman might be a goddess – while Richard takes a seat in the rolling chair by the tiny table and blows into his cupped hands to warm them. By the time Jensen sets a couple steaming mugs on the table and sits, Richard is looking warmer, but no less perturbed.

"So," Jensen says, taking a sip and sighing gratefully. He owes Jared the biggest thank-you ever for this. Richard looks up from his own mug, eyebrow raised in question, and Jensen continues, "You gonna tell me what's _really_ bugging you?"

The wince is tiny but noticeable. Richard's eyes go shuttered and he sets his mug down, keeping his hands around it. Jensen wonders if he's trying to keep them steady or simply warm. "Dunno what you're talking about," Richard mumbles, sounding anything but convincing.

"Uh huh." Jensen doesn't say anything else, just gives Richard a knowing look and takes another sip of his drink.

Richard shifts, looking uncomfortable. "I just…" He stops himself, looks away as his jaw clenches. Blows out a quiet breath and finally says, "Misha."

Jensen snorts. "Yeah, he can be a little exasperating sometimes. What'd he do now?"

"Nothing," Richard says, then quietly adds, "Which is what I don't get."

 _Ahh_ , Jensen thinks as the pieces start coming together. "Well look, I'm no expert," he says carefully, "but cryptic non-answers aside, have you tried talking to him?"

Richard's shifty look gets shiftier.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Jensen said, rolling his eyes. "It's no wonder you and Jared get along so well. You're two-of-a-fucking-kind. Never know how to open your damn mouths when something is bothering you." He kicks Richard's leg and takes some satisfaction in the way the older man yelps and glares at him. "Now. What are you going to do when we finally get the hell out of here?"

Richard pouts sulkily in his seat – Jensen boggles that this man is eight years older than he is, because seriously? – for a long moment before he finally sighs and relents. "Go home and talk to Misha."

"Damn right," Jensen says with a firm nod. "Now finish your hot chocolate."

Richard looks like he's fighting a grin when he obediently picks up his mug again. Jensen smirks and thinks of how proud of him Jared is going to be for this.

~

The last night of the change was only a couple days ago, and Richard is tired enough that all he wants to do is go home and collapse for a solid twelve hours. The first few days following a change are always exhausting, his energy sapped while his body recovers. But he's a man of his word, and god knows Jensen's going to give him hell if he _doesn't_ do what he said he would. So, with a weary sigh, he unlocks the door, kicks off his shoes and hangs his coat in the entryway, and goes in search of Misha.

He finds him in the basement, which doubles as a workshop (or possibly a mad scientist's lab), with all kinds of crazy crap Misha likes to tinker with. Right now, he's doing some very fine blade work on a wooden amulet that Richard knows is for the necklace he's making for his niece's birthday. Richard leans against the stair rail and watches him work with a ridiculously fond smile tugging at his lips.

Misha's hunched over on his stool, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he wittles – fucking _wittles_ – away at the tiny creation held carefully between his thumb and forefinger.

Richard's heart pulses with so much warmth he thinks he's going to drown in it, and he swallows hard, clearing his throat to get Misha's attention.

Misha looks up in obvious surprise, blinking at Richard several times before he grins and hops off the stool. "You're home! I made dinner if you're hungry. Figured you didn't get much chance to eat on the set."

"Yeah, no, that sounds great," Richard says, fighting to keep his voice even as he tries not to just throw himself at the man in front of him. "But first, uh. Can we talk?" When Misha's eyes go wide and serious, he hastens to clarify, "It's nothing big, just something that's been on my mind." He shrugs, tries to make it careless. "No big deal, I promise."

Misha nods slowly. "Yeah, sure," he says. "Come on, I'll warm up food while we talk."

Richard follows him up the stairs, taking a few breaths to steady himself. He hates the way he gets around Misha. Things used to be easier when his emotions weren't so damn close to the surface every time they came within ten feet of each other. Before he latched onto Misha like he had any right to him.

The kitchen is warm and bright and cheerful, all things Richard is decidedly not, but he plops down at the table and does his best to pretend. He watches as Misha sticks something (Jesus Christ, is that _homemade lasagna?_ ) in the oven, then braces himself when he takes a seat across from Richard.

"So. What's up?" Misha asks, folding his hands in front of him and pinning Richard with those too-blue eyes.

Richard chews on the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out how to say what he wants to. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms like that's going to shield him somehow, looks anywhere and everywhere that _isn't_ at Misha himself. And finally can't avoid the question any longer. "Why –" He stops, swallowing hard and wishing again he could be as cool and collected around Misha as he was the rest of the time. "Why aren't you…different? During the moon. Around me."

Misha blinks and tilts his head at the disjointed question. "What do you mean?"

He avoids grinding his teeth. Barely. "When I'm…like that. You don't. You're not any different than you are any other time. I don't get it. I don't understand how…"

Clarity enters Misha's eyes in a rush. "Oh. Jesus, Rich, why would you even ask that? Why would I be?" His eyebrows furrow. "You're still my friend, even when you're a little furrier than normal. Christ, you're still _Richard_."

"I'm _not_ ," Richard growls before he manages to smother the immediate anger. "I'm not," he repeats, a little calmer. "I'm…I'm a fucking monster, Misha. Even now, even human, I'm –"

It's Misha's eyes blazing in fury now, and Richard barely has time to catch it before the other man is out of his chair and circling the table, grabbing Richard's arm and yanking him out of the chair, shaking him before Richard can process what the hell's going on. "Don't," Misha growls. "Don't you _dare_. You're not, you're not anything like you think you are, goddamn it, Richard…" He closes his eyes, his grip on Richard's arm bruising and unrelenting. Takes a deep breath before he looks up and locks his gaze with Richard's again. Frozen, trapped, Richard feels the room start to spin. "I know you," Misha says, deathly quiet. "I've seen you, human and wolf, and you are about as far from _monstrous_ as a person can get. Why would you even think that? How could you?"

"I…" Richard trails off, unwilling – or maybe unable – to answer. "Misha…"

Misha seems to remember himself then, because he steps back, releasing Richard with what looks like regret as he runs a hand through his hair. "I've tried so hard to be patient, but Christ, I can't listen to this. Whatever you're holding onto, whatever made you start thinking this way, it's poison, Rich. The silver had nothing on this. You need to let it go."

"I…can't…" It's a good thing the chair is right there, because Richard's legs are suddenly way too jelly-like to support him. He drops onto it and leans forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands as he tries so damn hard to fight off the rush of memories.

_"What the fuck is he?"_

_A gasp, a clatter as she backs away from him. A scream. A long silence, and then the cock of a shotgun._

_Running. Skittering on too many legs and a slippery floor, not understanding, so scared, trying to cry out for his mama and only hearing an incomprehensible whine…_

_"Don't! He's still my son, you can't shoot him, damn it!"_

_"Slut! I shoulda fucking known –"_

_A harsh slap, another scream._

_"Keep the freak locked up if you know what's good for either of you."_

_Ungentle hands, a shove, the darkness of an unlit room, the snick of a lock…_

_"Richard. Richard, stay in there. It's just a few days. Richard. Oh God, Richard…"_

"Richard. _Richard_." Misha's hand on his shoulder jolts him, grounds him back in the here and now.

Richard realizes suddenly that he's shaking. He chokes back the cry lodged in his throat and lays his head on the cool table while he struggles to remember how to breathe properly.

"What the hell was _that?_ " Misha asks, exhaling noisily and he pulls his chair around the table and drops down next to Richard, his hand going immediately back to Richard's shoulder. "Scared the hell out of me."

Richard doesn't answer right away, too busy being grateful for Misha's immediate presence and the warmth he's giving off. He collects himself slowly, the dizziness receding as his mind clears. He doesn't even try to open his eyes, but he does finally mutter, "Sorry."

He thinks he should have expected the way Misha smacks the back of his head. "Idiot," he grumbles, but there's a deep well of fondness in his voice that Richard holds onto desperately. "Fucking _apologizing_ , what the hell, Richard?"

"I've got a lot of emotional baggage. In case that wasn't obvious." Richard's voice is raspy, and his eyes feel like they've got lead weights attached when he manages to lift his head and look at Misha.

Misha snorts, pulling Richard into a hug that has him flailing a little. He's too unbalanced for this crap, but he lets one arm come up around Misha tentatively, holds on for longer than he thinks he should as his heart begins to beat normally again instead of trying to pound its way out of his chest.

It's from the relative safety of Misha's hold that he rests his forehead against his mate's shoulder and whispers, "I was five the first time I changed, and my mama's husband…well, he wasn't thrilled. It wasn't a good time."

Misha's arms tighten around him. "Tell me about it," he says, and maybe Richard's imagining the soft press of a kiss just behind his ear, but it steadies him, just enough for him to tell Misha the story of his past.

~

Misha would very much like to find Richard's stepfather and do a multitude of horrible and illegal things to him – slitting his throat is at the top of that list, and Misha's not usually given over to such violence – but he's thwarted by the fact that the man is already dead.

He makes a mental note to find the grave sometime so he can piss all over it, then berates himself for plotting evil while Richard is still in his arms talking about things that make bile rise in Misha's throat.

How anyone can go through the type of childhood Richard had and still be so goddamn wonderful, Misha doesn't know. Doesn't even care, at this point, because Richard got away from it, and he's here now, and he's never going to have to live with that kind of pain again because Misha's not fucking letting him out of his sight.

 _Ever_.

By the time Richard pulls away, starting to look awkward, Misha's heard enough. About the abuse, both physical and verbal. About the way he'd grown up hearing himself called _monster_ and _freak_ more often than his own name. About the loneliness and the fear. About the thoughts he had of just ending it, all of it.

About the discovery of silver as a way to bind the wolf instead of hurt it.

About the impossible relief even alongside the awful knowledge that it didn't change what he was inside.

He's heard everything he can stand to hear, and Richard looks exhausted and pale, and Misha just wants to magically fix everything for him. He can't, he knows he can't, but god, he wishes he could.

But he can at least do this.

He takes Richard's hands, clasps them tightly in his own. Holds those amber eyes like turning away would kill him, and then wonders if maybe it really would. "I hope you're listening carefully, Rich, because you need to hear this and I need you to believe it."

Richard doesn't even blink, but he does manage a fraction of a nod, his face flushed.

"You are _not_ a monster. Or a freak. You _never_ were. You're one of the best men I know, someone I'm damn proud to be able to count as a friend. The wolf is a part of who you are, and there isn't anything wrong with that. And Richard, I love you – _all_ of you – for exactly who and what you are."

~

Days later, Richard is still reeling. After dropping that bombshell, Misha had squeezed his hands once, stood, and left Richard to his whirlwind thoughts. He hasn't pushed, hasn't brought it up once since then. Richard's so grateful he could cry.

He's also a little bit indignant, because where the hell does Misha get off just dropping that on him and running away?

But mostly, the gratitude outweighs the annoyance. He's just not ready to deal with…anything. Misha probably knows that. He's definitely too smart for his own good sometimes.

It should be impossible to go back to normal – or their semblance of normal – after that, but that's exactly what they do, for the most part. Richard takes all of his shock and doubt and disbelief and shoves it as far down as he can. He smiles between takes, jokes around with Jared and Jensen, has breakfast and reads the paper with Misha every morning, banters back and forth with him the rest of the time. He tweets his followers on Twitter, rolls his eyes at Misha doing the same. They go out for drinks with the crew.

It's _fun_.

For a little while, Richard can almost forget the things that normally weigh so heavily on him, because it's far easier to try and forget the root of the problem – his lycanthropy – than it is to remember Misha's easy acceptance of it.

Because, Christ, he just doesn't _get_ it.

But after a couple weeks, he just can't keep letting it go. Misha watches him sometimes, with a look that Richard feels right down to his core. Misha smiles at him, and it's like the rest of the world just _stops_.

Misha, for reasons Richard can't even begin to fathom, feels something for him. And Richard wants that, God knows he does. But how can he accept it if he can't understand?

He's a monster, but Misha doesn't see that, and Richard wants to know _why_. He wants to know how Misha can look past something so ugly and terrible and feel those things in spite of it.

But when he finally tries to talk about it, he's left feeling even more frustrated than when he started. Misha's humoring smiles and the way he patted Richard's shoulder… And then the answers he gave that made no sense.

_"It's not 'in spite of' anything, Rich. It just is."_

And, _"Nothing that was bad could ever shine as brightly as you do."_

And even, _"You find me an actual monster that steals chocolate chips off the countertops and then has the audacity to play innocent, and then we'll talk."_

Misha's the most maddening person Richard's ever had the displeasure of knowing.

Of course, Misha doesn't know everything. He doesn't know about the parts of Richard that Richard smothers so forcefully, the parts that even now are howling for Richard to _take_ and _claim_ and _keep_. Maybe that would be enough to convince the man of what Richard really is, but it's the one thing Richard can't tell him. Because – and he hates admitting this, even just to himself – he likes that Misha doesn't see him as a monster.

Misha's companionship and the easy way he just accepts Richard for what he is…it feels so damn good, and no matter how bad Richard knows it is for him, he wants to keep that for as long as he can.

He's so focused on everything in his own head that he's not prepared for how quickly the moon creeps up on him that month, not until he's already on all fours on the ground, blinking down at his paws and then staring mournfully out his window at the moon-bright sky.

Misha comes in, as he always does, and sits on the floor beside him. Long, gentle fingers stroke through the fur around his neck, and he presses closer in a way he never allows himself to do when he's furless. Revels in the smell of Misha, the smell he can't help associating with _home_.

"I want to show you something," Misha says after some time has passed. He doesn't know how long they've been sitting here, has no caring of the passage of time when he's like this, but he's warm and comfortable and peaceful, and he doesn't want to move.

Still, for his mate, for _Misha_ , he will. He nudges at Misha's arm and stands, tilting his head when Misha follows suit and smirks down at him. Human, he would comment, have some witty retort ready and waiting on his tongue. Wolf, he has no way to articulate such thoughts, and so he doesn't let himself care. Simply nods toward the door and then looks back at Misha. _Well?_ he asks with eyes alone.

Misha leads him out, through the house and toward the master bedroom. His sense of color is not as sharp like this as it is with human eyes, but he knows the room to be done in rich shades of navy and chestnut, just as he knows that all of the furniture is handmade, crafted lovingly by the human at his side.

He's never seen the ornate mirror there by the closet though, and an instinct he didn't even realize he had makes him shudder to a halt just before his reflection reaches it. _No_ , he thinks. _I know what I'll see_.

 _No_.

 _Don't make me_.

"Richard," Misha says, his voice soft. "C'mon, all this time and you still don't trust me?"

Of course he does. He trusts his mate more than he's allowed himself to trust anyone else in his whole life. But he can't. He _can't_.

Misha is standing right in front of the shining surface of the mirror, the brilliance of his eyes reflected from the side in the polished glass, and he holds a hand out, beckoning.

He whimpers. Backs away a step, but the hand doesn't falter, and he can't go further. Not when Misha's eyes are so beseeching. Almost against his will, he takes that step forward again. Then another. And another.

Misha's eyes are warm and familiar, and his smile lights up the world, and those are the only things he allows himself to look at. Until Misha kneels down, runs a gentle hand over his side, and says, "I need you to look in the mirror, Rich."

He does. How can he not, when it's a request from a man who otherwise demands so little from him?

He turns and he looks, and the wave of revulsion he braces himself for…doesn't come.

He hasn't seen himself this way in over thirty years. The curiosity lasted only as long as his innocence did, and that was far too short a time for a child. After, he never wanted the reminder.

But what he sees isn't the monster he expects, the one his parents had always assured him was lurking beneath the surface. There's nothing sinister, nothing inherently evil about this reflection. There's no fear when he takes in the shape of his face and the lines of his body. And when he finally forces his gaze up, when he finally looks into his own eyes…

"Those are human eyes," Misha whispers, bending low enough that his breath shivers across the fur around his ear. "You are not the wolf, Richard. The wolf is _you_."

And that is when he finally understands.

~

"There's something you should probably know," Misha says the moment he sees Richard's eyes open the next morning.

They're lying on Misha's ridiculously large, extravagantly soft bed. Curled around each other, _cuddling_ , because there really isn’t another word for it and Misha doesn't mind anyway. Richard is naked, like he always is after a change, but hell, even that doesn't matter right now, in this little bubble of space around them.

Right now, it's just Misha and Richard and a calm acceptance Misha doesn't think he's ever felt off the other man before.

Richard blinks at him in the early-morning light, and his lips tug up at the corners. "How much more you think I can take right now?" he mumbles, voice raspy with sleep.

"Aww, I have a lot of faith in you, Rich," Misha replies with a wink. "I don't think you're at the breaking point _quite_ yet."

Though, he supposes, this could be it. Misha's good with secrets, but not the ones that really matter, and this is kind of a big one in the scheme of things.

"All right, lay it on me," Richard says with a sigh. His eyes are golden-bright when he rolls them and raises an expectant eyebrow at Misha, but there's an undercurrent of worry about what Misha could possibly want to tell him right now, after everything.

"It's about Jared and Jensen," Misha admits. He's ready for the way Richard tenses, because Richard doesn't trust a whole lot of people, and those two are on that very short list. Misha truly hopes he's not about to ruin that, but Richard needs to know. He reaches over and closes his hand around the one tucked up by Richard's chest. "They know."

He doesn't need to clarify. Richard's eyes go wide, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times, soundless protests ringing clear as a bell around him.

"I'm sorry," Misha says. "I should have told you sooner. Jensen was here when you were sick, when I was trying to find a way to help you. And once he knew, there wasn't really any way of stopping Jared from finding out."

Richard's jaw snaps closed and he stares at Misha for a long moment. "This whole time?" he finally asks.

Misha can only nod, squeezing his hand. "And…Sera, too. She was the only one with the power to manipulate the shooting schedule so you never had to work the nights of the full moon." And hadn't that just been the funnest conversation ever? "But that's it, they're the only ones who know. I promise."

"Well, hell, Misha." Richard's eyes are wary now, like he doesn't know how to take what he's hearing. Honestly, Misha doesn't blame him. That's a long time to hold so tightly to such a big secret. Especially one that you think will destroy every relationship you try to have. Learning that the other people you care about already know has to be daunting. To say the least.

"They…" Misha hesitates, uncharacteristically timid about revealing the rest. "I was having dreams, after you left. I didn't understand, and Jensen and Jared wanted to help. They helped me locate an elder wolf. He explained a lot of things I wouldn't have gotten otherwise."

Richard nods slowly, absorbing this. "Christ," he whispers, closing his eyes. "Anything else, or am I allowed to freak out now?"

Misha pulls him close, wraps his arms around the smaller man and doesn't let go even when Richard tries – very briefly – to escape. "I am sorry," he tells Richard honestly, "for breaking your trust. I promise my intentions were innocent, if it helps."

Richard exhales and slowly relaxes in Misha's hold. "I get it," he says. "What else could you do, right? S'okay, Mish." He hesitates, just long enough for Misha to catch on and worry, and then he says, "The boys…"

"They're your friends, you idiot," Misha laughs, relieved that this is something he can promise without doubt. "They’ve known for months, and have they treated you any differently?"

He knows the answer even before Richard gives a tiny shake of his head. It's not enough to alleviate all of his fears, Misha knows that, but it's a good start. Richard will see soon enough. They'll be on set in just a few short hours, and he'll see that he has nothing to worry about from the people who know him and care about him.

Maybe Misha's done an okay thing here after all.

~

The sky has opened up, and everyone is soaked to the bone and miserable. Torrential downpours are pretty much par for the course here, but Jensen doesn't think he'll ever actually get used to them. Jared, of course, shakes his dripping hair out of his eyes like he's a damn porn star, grinning at everyone and tilting his face up to it and laughing as he catches raindrops on his tongue.

It's not alluring, and Jensen will swear to that on a stack of bibles. It's _not_. At all.

Anyway.

He's ready to write this day off entirely, convince the crew that it's useless to try and film anything when they can't hear the actors over the rain, but then he gets a good look at Misha and Richard as they make their way onto the set.

Misha looks altogether too pleased with himself, and no one has the look unless they either got lucky or –

Richard turns to look him in that moment, and Jensen's taken aback by the immediate red flush in his face and the way he looks away so quickly. And then Richard sneaks a look back, and one side of his mouth tugs up, tentatively, _hopefully_ , and Jensen gets it.

His answering smile comes readily, and he nods to the pair of them as they walk toward the director.

Later, he sees Richard talking to Jared off in a corner, and he sees the bear hug Jared engulfs him in. He sees Misha watching them with the soppiest, most ridiculous smile on his face. And he sees how much _happier_ Richard looks, how much more alive he seems.

The rain doesn't let up for even a second the entire time they're filming, but Jensen can't bring himself to mind so much, after that.

~

The crackling fire and the drumming rain create a lullaby that Misha is more than ready to fall asleep to after the grueling day on set. Richard is warm by his side, curled up on the rug, muzzle resting in the crook of Misha's arm.

As far as Misha can tell, his friend is sound asleep, and he's heading that way himself. Which may be why, just as he's succumbing to Morpheus's spell, he whispers, "Love you so damn much. Fuck, Rich, why won't you just accept that and fucking claim me already?" A small release of the frustration that's been building for so long now.

He falls asleep, and when he dreams, he dreams of eyes that glint golden in sunlight, and of a playful smile that makes his heart tremble. Gentle fingers that trace paths of fire over his skin, and a whisper of breath across his ear that makes goosebumps rise all over his body.

Misha's never felt so exposed in his life, certainly not in sleep, and maybe that's why it's so hard to differentiate between the waking and the dreaming.

In fact, Misha doesn't realize he's actually woken until Richard is leaning over him, hands braced on Misha's shoulders, amber eyes blazing down as Richard growls, "Be very sure that this is what you want, Misha."

He's slow to react, sleep-fog making it hard to make sense of what Richard means. He blinks slowly, opens his mouth to question, and then he remembers.

 _Claim me already_.

Richard is watching him steadily, no hint of doubt in those eyes, and it's enough. It's exactly what he's been waiting for all along. "What, you want an engraved invitation?" he manages. "My signature in blood, maybe? I mean, Jesus, Rich, a guy could wait forever here."

Richard's lips quirk, but his eyes don't lose even an ounce of their intensity as he leans down. He nuzzles at the shell of Misha's ear, breathes Misha's name into the sliver of space between them. Misha turns his head, holds Richard's gaze for a long moment that stretches between them like miles of endless road.

It's Richard who closes the distance, Richard who graces Misha with that first brush of lips against lips. Barely more than a feather-light touch until Misha's hand comes up to trail along his side. The touch against Richard's skin makes him gasp, turns a kiss that could almost be innocent into something instantly more passionate.

Their mouths open for each other, soft sounds of pleasure greedily swallowed as they shift and curl closer together. Misha's chest is bare, nothing worn to sleep but a pair of soft cotton pants, and the press of skin to skin is almost more than he can handle like this. He wonders what happened to all his silky-smooth moves, and then decides he really doesn't care.

This is Richard's show, and Misha's more than happy to let him take the lead.

For now.

He doesn't remember Richard's nudity until he feels the swell of something hard against his thigh, and he can't help the way his body moves, instinctively seeking to change angles, to get that pressure somewhere else, somewhere…

Oh, _Christ_. His moan and Richard's mingle as their hardening lengths come together. The thin pajama pants Misha's wearing do absolutely nothing to block the feeling, and Richard ruts against him desperately, licking into Misha's mouth and clamping a hand on his hip and this is tenth grade stuff, but Misha's going to lose it any second now, he knows it.

Well, damn, if this is going to be over that quickly, he's at least going to be naked. He pushes Richard back, laughs into Richard's skin at the growl and the immediacy with which the werewolf tries to shove his way back. Misha works quickly to divest himself of the pajamas, and then they just collide back together like a couple of magnets.

Richard's hands are everywhere now, teasing and trailing and worshipping every inch of skin they can reach, and he doesn't stop kissing Misha for even a second as they move together. The sounds Richard is making don't sound entirely human as their cocks meet, sliding together and becoming trapped between their bodies.

"Not enough," Richard gasps. "Not _enough_."

"Been holding back too long," Misha breathes, his face pressed against Richard's shoulder. "Need to claim me. Not gonna be satisfied till you do." Misha really wants to ask how the fuck he's held back as long as he has, how he's holding back even now, but he can't. Can barely form complete thoughts right now, let alone sentences.

And it doesn't matter. It doesn't, because Richard is right here with Misha on the precipice, and he's not going to be holding back much longer.

Richard whines, nudging Misha to get him to tilt his head back toward him so he can claim his mouth in another frantic kiss. Misha is dizzy, drunk on the heat and the desire and the frenzied passion and on _Richard_. Richard's mouth doing things to him that Misha has never felt in his life, twisting him in knots so tight he thinks he might snap.

 _Do it, do it, do it_ , he mentally chants, and fuck, maybe Richard can hear him, because his hands clench, digging welcome bruises into Misha's skin, and he pulls away to stare down at him once more, a last chance for Misha to escape.

Like Misha would ever be that stupid.

He meets Richard's gaze unflinchingly, trying to catch his breath. "Get on with it, Rich. I don't care where."

Richard's eyes flare wide at Misha's knowledge of what's coming, and Misha makes a mental note to send that elder wolf a goddamn fruit basket.

Richard dips down again, slowly, nuzzling at Misha's hair and mouthing his way down his neck. Misha tilts his head, giving Richard more access, and the noise the werewolf makes is a perfect blend of appreciation and greed. Misha's cock is hard and throbbing against his stomach, but Richard holds himself away now, completely focused on his task. He reaches the juncture between Misha's neck and shoulder and pauses, licking at the skin.

"Rich…"

Misha's plea doesn't get beyond the name before Richard bites down hard.

There's pain, of course there's pain, but God, beneath that is the fiercest kind of ecstasy. Misha arches, moans spilling from him as brilliant sparks dance behind closed eyes. Richard doesn't let up, but now he's back, pressing himself into Misha, rutting against him like an animal, and that's all it takes for Misha to finally shatter.

Peripherally, he's aware of Richard's desperate thrusts and the whimpers he presses into where his teeth are firmly clamped. He knows the moment the werewolf follows him over the edge. And he can feel the pressure begin to let up against his skin, fierce pleasure-pain fading to an intense throb.

But really, by then his awareness has already dimmed toward darkness, and he slides the rest of the way into it with ease.

~

Richard isn't sure what he expected, finally taking a mate, claiming someone as his own. He's spent so long fighting against it, thinking it was something base and carnal and wrong, that this feeling of being so grounded, so in tune with himself and the man beside him, feels completely alien.

But, God, perfect. And that Misha knew, that it was Misha who pushed for this…

His words last night when he thought Richard was sleeping had set a fire blazing inside of him. There was no fighting it, after that. The wolf – _he_ – wanted Misha, and Misha wanted him back. Knew what it was, _clearly_ knew what it meant, and wanted him anyway.

Wanted him always.

Misha's features are soft with sleep, sunlight from the windows dancing over his skin in enchanting prismatic patterns. Skin so flawlessly smooth except for that mark. His mark. Already healed, but the scar will last. Misha will carry it for the rest of his life.

There are no words for the sheer contentment that flows through Richard at the thought.

With a deep sigh, he lies back down next to his mate, throws an arm over Misha's chest and drags him closer.

Even in sleep, Misha nuzzles into him, clings to Richard as tightly as Richard is holding onto him.

The day grows steadily brighter outside, and the glowing warmth in Richard's chest mirrors it.

 

  
**  
Epilogue   
**   


The pouch sits in his hand, heavy with the weight of his past. Richard peels back the layers of silk and cotton and whatever else Misha used to wrap it, slowly revealing the shining, untarnished silver that lies within.

It's been two weeks since the moon. Two weeks since the last time Richard carried any real fear about the creature he is. Two weeks of acceptance, and gratitude, and awe. Two weeks where he can look in a mirror and _smile_ at his own reflection.

Maybe two weeks isn't that long a time in the scheme of things, but to Richard, it's its own little eternity. It's the first two weeks of the rest of his life.

He's ready.

Misha watches him from the doorway, leaning against the jamb with one hand casually tucked into the pocket of his jeans while the other plays with his phone. His hair is artfully disheveled, devil-may-care smile fixed firmly on his face, and eyes that see right into the deepest parts of Richard's soul glinting every time he looks up.

"It was…kind of like a safety net," Richard says, glancing back down at the chain. "Couldn't let go, y'know?" He carefully folds the pouch around the treacherously beautiful metal and looks back up at Misha. "I can now."

Misha nods, eyes crinkling at the corners as his smile widens and becomes more genuine. "Let's go melt that bastard down," he says, stuffing his phone in his pocket.

It's just fast enough to make Richard suspicious. "Were you just tweeting?" he demands.

Misha shrugs, but falls over himself trying to get at Richard's phone before he can open it and check for himself. He's unsuccessful, and Richard laughs as he holds the device away from Misha's grappling fingers long enough to read:

_Took on a werewolf the other day. Hunters don't know anything. Silver bullets? Bah. I gave it my number & it followed me home like a puppy._

 

~

End

~


End file.
